


Where The Heart Is

by Ambrose, Astray



Series: SMAUG shenanigans [8]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Arranged Marriages, F/M, Gen, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, there is no such thing as too many characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:38:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4905757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrose/pseuds/Ambrose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astray/pseuds/Astray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Capulet has plans for his nephew. Tybalt isn't so happy about it.</p><p>[Rated E for Chapter 4. It's perfectly skippable, plotwise.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tybalt had known it was a stupid idea to come to dine with his uncle. He usually did not bother going during term, having other things to do than listening to whatever caught his uncle's fancy this time. Yet, he could not refuse, not when Juliet pulled the puppy dog eyes stunt on him. Again. Damn them all. Not that he did not like his family – they were tolerable. But all this craze about doing everything better than the Montagues was starting to get on his nerves. After over twenty odd years, anyone would be tired of it. Although he argued with them constantly – and it took a while to make his cousin understand that no, he was not doing it on purpose. Simply, he hated Romeo – it was a gut feeling and if anything could ever be said of Tybalt Capulet, it was that he trusted his guts.

“Nephew, you will have to marry eventually.”

Of course. It had to be it. And trust his uncle to say it as soon as the appetizers were served – Tybalt would never get away from it a moment too soon, notably because that was how his family worked. When old Capulet talked, you listened and that was it. Tybalt kept silent. Well, until his uncle demanded an answer. Come to think of it, he could have pretended to stay at the library a bit longer, even if that meant having to listen to Mercutio trying to talk Benvolio out of studying. Actually, compared to the discussion that his uncle had planned, anything was preferable. Including Mercutio's innate babbling He did his best not to roll his eyes as he answered:

“I don’t think it is the right time to talk about this, Uncle.” _Not now, not ever._

It did not seem to faze Capulet in the slightest, as he went on: “It’s never the right time with you. We Capulets marry when we get out of university. I did it, your father did, so will you.”

“All the more reasons why I really should think about starting a doctorate after my Master.” Tybalt was aware that he was only prompting his uncle to react more violently. But he never liked this tradition. Nor the thought of getting married at all.

“Don’t test me.” The warning was clear in Capulet’s voice – and Tybalt suddenly could not care less.

They ate in silence for most of the meal, except for Juliet talking to her mother, occasionally asking Tybalt to elaborate for her. For some reason that he could not even fathom, they sounded almost okay that Juliet got along with Romeo. ‘Got along’, what a lovely way of putting it. Get the rainbows and unicorns! How could they be so blind? However, it seemed that they would not put too much of a fight anyway, because Capulet himself said Romeo was such a nice kid. It made Tybalt want to gag. Anyway, calm was not for so long: it was now dessert time and Capulet went back to his bone.

“What do you think of Abigail Maltese?”

“Who?” The name of Abigail vaguely sounded familiar but he could not place it. He frowned, trying to remember – and grasping at straws.

“Barabas’s daughter. She’s graduating in Theology, if I remember correctly.”

Tybalt suddenly remembered where he heard her name: the day he was at the library and he came across very distraught Benvolio and Gratiano, who had had to do extra work for Jonson’s class. Namely, religion. And Benvolio was the one to mention Abigail. Don’t remember what for, because at the time he was just trying to prevent Gratiano from slumping on the floor dramatically. That being settled, he confirmed his uncle’s veiled question. Because a Capulet does not ask questions.

"You will marry her, Tybalt. You have to. It does not please me, to have to force it unto you, but you need a wife."

"I don't care about inheritance. My father will not control me from his grave." He was doing his best not to shout but it was almost too hard. Yelling had no effect on his uncle. 

"It's more complicated than that."

"Of course! I have to marry so that Juliet can as well without upsetting random old aunts whom we don't even know anyway. I have to marry to make sure of leaving absolutely nothing to an abusive prick I hated. I have to marry Abigail Maltese because you know it'd piss him off. No pressure."

He was pleased with himself: he managed to say it all without letting his temper get the better of him. But it did nor help – all that he said fell unto deaf ears – the stricken look on Juliet's face made him feel like a total asshole. He was trapped, it was getting annoying. They did not see him as he was – as of late, he was not even sure he knew himself. His mind was cloudy – except this: he would not marry. Not Abigail. No one.

"Tybalt." Juliet, always her, was trying to bring him back. She was his anchor but now, it was not enough.

"Don't." He was unfair to her. He looked up to see Rosaline scowl at him. It was her typical ' _I'm not having any of your bullshit, Tyb, and if you make Juliet cry, I maul you_ '-expression. He swallowed thickly – he had no way out. So, he excused himself and left. For once, he went straight to his old room – and made a point of avoiding any living soul. He would wait a while before going back to his flat – he never trusted himself to drive when angry. And he had promised his aunt to stay over because he had no classes the following day and could afford it. One of the house's cats did not scuttle away when he made it to the corridor. This one was a black and white lady, tiny compared to the others. And clearly, she cared not for Tybalt's moods.

She got in as soon as he opened the door, rushing to his desk. He did not mind – even the times it got him mud on his papers. Which reminded him he had a paper to send to Macbeth in two days hence. Better get to the typing... He got the feline bookholder from her spot – tried to, she clawed at his arm until he let her climb her way to his shoulder. Setting to work – after finding those damned glasses he had to wear when he worked on a screen – Tybalt realized two things. First, that Edward I did not know when to stop and the Comyns were just as bad as the rest. Second, that having a purring ball of fur against your neck was distracting.

His mind kept going back to the dinner's fiasco. Why did he have to antagonise his uncle that much? The man practically saved him after his parents died, when he was staying with Rosaline. It had been a nightmare – his parents were not, in his memories, the cuddliest – but it had nothing on Rosa's father. When the school year ended, his uncle – the only one he thought of as one, proposed that he would come and live with them. But not without Rosa. Even then, his rage got him nothing but an extra beating – but this beating proved to be their salvation. One of his former teachers saw this and immediately called the carabinieri. That had been a year after his parents died. It was fuzzy. Tybalt was certain the only reason he was alive past twenty and not in a grave, or in jail for manslaughter, was their uncle Capulet's demand to take them in. For this, he was thankful. However, he had no idea why Capulet wanted him to marry Abigail – it was unexpected. Odd. Threatening.

He had thought that here, in Britain, they would be free from the family's shadow. As it turned out, they were here not just for studies – Montague was here too. At first, Tybalt was afraid – Mercutio was here too. As children, when names were just for teachers and parents, it had been easy. As easy as it could be. For years now, though, they had been fighting. It began when Romeo entered the scene, really. Tybalt insulted Mercutio out of habit but when the pup decided to have a go as well, he did not allow it. The fights got more vicious, the insults more biting.

Tybalt groaned. Why must his thoughts keep going back to Mercutio, of all people? His cat seemed to get bored as well, and she hopped down his shoulder. Things would have been easier, had they not moved. Had Mercutio not befriended the other two. Well, Romeo – because as far as Tybalt was concerned, Benvolio was the only decent Montague he ever saw. The man was good with Rosaline, even a blind man could tell. If she was happy, then it was what mattered. But there was no reason he would ever forgive Romeo how he treated her, or how Mercutio let it slip so easily. With this, his thoughts swung back to matrimony – if he married, Jules would be allowed to. It was stupid, it was something you did centuries ago.

Tybalt sprang up – staying still was doing him no good, at all. He could not take it – whenever did his life get so complicated? Granted, it had always been rather fucked up around the edges, but that was taking the cake. A massive, nasty cake. And still, his thoughts seemed to run in circles, or maybe he was cursed, because he thought of Mercutio. Mercutio who had not always been an enemy to fight; Mercutio, who had turned his entire world upside-down in just a few hours; Mercutio, who had actually listened to him making a fool of himself and did not judge him. He could not help the sense of uncertainty, but at this moment, Mercutio was the only one who seemed to have accepted him with no apparent second thoughts. He could talk to Rosaline, but she probably was with Jules.

As he moved towards his bed – the cat had found her way on the cover after a moment – he realized that he was alone. Utterly, completely alone. And he had no reason for refusing Abigail – not objectively, at least none that would seem rational to his uncle. Only this: he would never love her. Tybalt flopped on the mattress and closed his eyes. He would not get any work done tonight. Downstairs, he was ready to bet anything that his aunt and uncle were still arguing about the whole thing. Minutes passed. His cat apparently found the will to move, and came to fold herself against his side. Caressing the soft fur, his mind eventually wandered – to memories of his fingers tangled in someone else's hair – of a voice that haunted him, yet managed to sooth him – of dark eyes that seemed to see everything he tried to hide. Tybalt turned around, careful not to disturb the sleeping fur ball. He did not want to sleep – these days, he could not – whenever he fell asleep, it was to wake up in a sweat – or worse. It scared him – he did not know where he stood with Mercutio. Truth was, he was afraid of all the implications. When they last spoke, they agreed to work it out. They had not crossed paths since, but even so, the memories helped. He did not know what he was, but he was sure Mercutio meant what he had said. It was something Tybalt kept close now – even though he was definitely not comfortable with waking from a rather... vivid, shall we say, dreams involving Mercutio. Tybalt fought the urge to cringe – he was acting like a damned teenager – which he had not been for quite a few years. A knock was heard. 

"Tyb, it's me. Uncle said he would talk to you first thing tomorrow. I thought you'd want to know. Anyway, if you decide to get out of here, Jules and I will cover for you. Good night." 

He never loved Rosaline so much as now. But what could he do? No matter how he dreaded the face-off with his uncle, it was not like he had anywhere to run? Except he had to go – he would go mad in here, waiting for the axe to come down on his neck.

The last moment he truly felt peace was when he stood with Mercutio, in fact. That was saying something.  _Man up, Tybalt. You know, for someone so intelligent, you can be incredibly dense._  He had to see Mercutio – he had no idea what he'd say – but Mercutio would know. He knew the words – and most of all, he knew Tybalt. In minutes, Tybalt was in the street, walking in the damp night. The cold did not faze him – he would talk to Mercutio – he would be safe. Maybe, just maybe, Mercutio remembered and he would find some of that warmth again. Something he so desperately needed.

He walked fast – he had a long way to go, and maybe it would have been more intelligent to take the car but he did not trust himself with driving right now. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep warm. For some reason, the weather seemed to try to match his inner turmoil as a very fine drizzle started to fall – not even to truly soak him, but enough to feel needles piercing the flimsy protection of his clothing. The orange lights were a constant, the half-rain drawing halos around them.

Damn him – damn them all. He was running away – he had never run away before. Not even when things were getting so rough for him and Rosaline. And now, he was fleeing because of marriage – a marriage to which he was fairly sure Abigail would not agree to. In fact, the more he turned the thoughts in his head, the more he suspected it to be a rather weak excuse to see Mercutio. In the middle of the night. Because that was absolutely not creepy and totally normal and legit for him to show up on the doorstep of a man he had spent half his life hating – and the other half, having mixed feelings about.

Gods, since when did it get so confusing? It had been easy beforehand but now, not so much. He despised it, the fact that everything seemed to run in circles, like an entire chapter written in run-in sentences that would never make sense because all the punctuation went away.

He did not know how long he walked, to be perfectly honest, but his legs were starting to ache, so he must have gone pretty far. He recognized the street – he was getting closer. Rain had stopped, so hopefully he wouldn't look too awful – but he could not bring himself to care over much. By now, turning back was not an option – he needed to speak with Mercutio. Because Mercutio had been a constant somehow, even when they were apart, and Tybalt had to find him. He had to know – that he could be safe, that someone may care enough about him. And gods, that was stupid!

Next thing he knew, he was standing in the hall of the apartments complex where Mercutio lived. It was a brightly lit space, and after a long walk in the cold and dark, it was a bit like stepping in an overheated room. He climbed the stairs up to the third floor where he knew was Mercutio's flat. He had come here some other times, last time to invite him to the party that started it. Or rather, set fire to a barrel of gunpowder that had been sitting next to a matchbox for a good while.

Tybalt had a moment of hesitation in front of the door. What if Mercutio did not answer? What if he was out? What if he sent Tybalt on his way? He raised his hand to the door. He had to talk to him – he could not go back – not now, not for a while. Desperation welled up in his chest, and he almost choked on it. He knocked. Not answer. Desperation turned into panic and it was like he was going to drown if he could not get in – he knocked as hard as he dared. He could not take it, he could not breathe, he could not – No answer came. Mercutio must be out. Exhaustion replaced the panic, and he nearly crumpled to the ground. As he turned away to leave, his entire body protesting against any movement, the door was yanked open.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Mercutio woke up, looked at the clock, and shoved his face in his pillow. He would have sworn he'd heard a knock. Or rather, a _thump_. But that must be the piles of books on his shelves that finally yielded to gravity. What else could it be? Benvolio practically lived with Rosaline and barely ever came back – which usually meant he would call Mercutio the day before, and certainly would not pop by in the middle of the night. So that was not Benvolio having locked himself out. 

But the noise started again, louder. He checked the clock again, mumbling, “don't tell me the clock's broken again and we're in the middle of the afternoon.”

But it was still dark outside, and the clock seemed perfectly fine. The thumping didn't stop. Apparently someone was trying to break through his door. He would not pay for damages so, with a heaving sigh, he rolled out of bed and put on the nearest clothes he could find. As he padded out of his room – rather slowly, because turning on the light meant brightness, and brightness was awful, he heard a voice, muffled by the walls and door, yell: “Mercutio, it's me! I know it's late but please, open up!”

He would have recognised this voice anywhere.  _Tybalt._ He didn't know what to think. Part of him was pissed that he'd woken him up in the middle of the night. Part of him rejoiced that Tybalt thought about him as the one to go to at this hour. Although this part was being crushed by the first one. At least until his sleep addled brain caught up: Tybalt was outside his place at night. Clearly not to kill him, but that was still weird. He knew they'd reached some kind of understanding after the party at the Capulets, but for the proud Prince of Cats to seek refuge with his former enemy, something dire must have happened. Sudden worry fell on him like cold water and he rushed to the door, yanking it open. Tybalt was starting to leave. As Tybalt turned back, Mercutio understood that he had done the right thing in opening that damn door. Even though it was not the first time, there was something odd, and faintly terrifying in seeing Tybalt look so lost. The the way he carried himself, his body twisted on the spot, his facial expression, all this betrayed his agitation. And an agitated Tybalt was not the kind of Tybalt Mercutio was used to see. In fact, it reminded him quite unpleasantly of their argument at the party. Tybalt simply looked at him, and then averted his gaze. He was going to bolt, Mercutio was sure of it, so he did the best thing he could think of: he threw the door wide open and called out to him. 

“Wanna come in?” He cringed. It came out wrong, way too casual, and way too loud. Though, to be fair, if his neighbours weren't already awake then they most probably were deaf anyway. Not that he really gave a rat's ass – he couldn't afford to let Tybalt leave.

Tybalt who now seemed to hesitate.

“Just... get in already. I'm awake now, so if you don't get your ass here this instant I'll have to chase you and make you pay for waking me up by telling me exactly what's up with you.” He paused briefly, considering his next move – he needed an extra incentive... He caught himself fingering his top, and he was hit by a stroke of genius. “Alright, say what, Tybalt. You wouldn't want me to get out like _that._ ” He was just in his boxer shorts and a worn out Jigglypuff tee that Benvolio got him for shit and giggles years ago. It was so horrendous that he kept it for the sanctum of his flat, its existence carefully concealed. Until now. 

Mercutio certainly did not expect that bark of laughter from Tybalt. Or at least, he would have expected mockery of some sort. There was nothing there, the sound so absolutely hollow that it did nothing for his own nerves. Something was definitely off, and it had to be something big. And yet, just as Mercutio thought it might be a lost cause, Tybalt surprised him by coming in, without a word. As soon as he was in, and Mercutio had closed the door, Tybalt seemed not to know what to do with himself. At any other time, it would have been hilarious. Instead of trying to get him to talk right then, Mercutio padded to the living room. However, when his unexpected guest didn't follow he came back to show him the way. Like, really, was he waiting for a written invitation? He thought it best not to ask.

“You really look like something the cat brought in... What happened?” He would rather not ask directly why Tybalt was here. Chances are he did not know any more than Mercutio himself, and asking him would just have him clamming up. Clearly, spending years taunting Tybalt came with a good share of useful information.

Tybalt just frowned, and did not even move at the expression. Normally, any cat-related pun would be enough to set him off. It did not matter that they were now on better terms. He knew Tybalt enough, and this mute Tybalt was not the normal one.

Resolved not to let Tybalt off the hook on account of his silence, he invited him to sit on the couch – after throwing his stuff on the floor to make room for him. Tybalt sank in the couch and took his head in his hands. Alright, that was weird enough. Mercutio had to make him talk – even if that was not really Tybalt's thing. Mercutio had learned the hard way that Tybalt was a man of few words – he usually fought his way out of any situation, and his body language was usually enough to make himself understood. Mercutio had a whole catalogue of Tybalt's moves, expressions, and stances, so that he rarely needed him to actually speak. But this time, he was floundering, unable to read him past the obvious distress. The absence of outburst was a sign that Mercutio could not possibly overlook. Yet he didn't know what he could do, and he hated being clueless. If he so much as said a word wrong... He started pacing. Then, after a moment: “You want something? Coffee?” No answer. “A drink, maybe?”

“No!” The word came out loud as a yell, but with something that definitely sounded like exhaustion.

“Fine, No really, be that way. It's not like it's the middle of the night, it's not like you woke me and half the building up. It's not like you're sitting right there with something on your mind but refuse to spill the beans. It's not like it's not done at all _and_ -” He raised his voice when he noticed Tybalt moving to get up. “You are going to stay here until you talk to me, because that's the very least you can do.”

It was only at the end of his tirade that he cast a good glance to Tybalt again. He really looked exhausted, defeated almost, and he wanted to punch himself for yelling at him. He just could not stand being there, and waiting patiently for Tybalt to speak. Although he was not sure he wanted to know what happened. But the more he tried not to think about it, the worse it got, what with apocalyptic scenarios fighting for his attention. Truth was, he just wanted to sleep. They both needed to sleep.

“Look, if you don't want to say anything right now, I get it. Actually, I'm way too knackered to handle anything more than a pillow. How about we grab some sleep, and then I get to badger you when we're both rested, and awake?”

To his relief, Tybalt nodded. Mercutio then proceeded to his bedroom – and of course, Tybalt had to stop following him the instant their destination became clear.

“I won't take your room.” The words were barely a whisper, but Mercutio still heard him just fine.

“Come now, it's fine. I'll take the couch. I rarely try sleeping on my own couch. And I live for experiments.” He cracked a smile, doing his best to assure Tybalt that it was fine. It was, really. “Besides, you look way more tired than I am. Here you go!” He ushered him inside and crossed the room to switch on the light of the night-stand. He went to open his closet – which was in order, thank you very much.

“There's stuff in the closet if you need, and the bathroom's right next door. I'll put there a spare set of towels too. And if you need anything, just tell me. I'm not sure I'll be sleeping much either way, so don't hesitate.”

He was about to leave the room when Tybalt reached for him, gripping his arm. He turned around, slightly stunned by the sudden gesture, and caught Tybalt whispering something that sounded like 'please, don't go'. He did not move a iota, unsure what to do or say. It was odd, but again, their very relationship, or lack thereof, was odd. He waited, the unvoiced question probably etched all over his face, until Tybalt spoke again. “Don't leave.”

He could not miss how Tybalt was shaking, how the grip on his arm grew tighter still, almost painful. He did not have it in him to leave Tybalt, not when he was in that state. Not when he was way too tired to process what was happening and the pace at which it was happening. Truth be told, he did not really want to go. And so, he stayed, doing his utmost not to invade Tybalt's personal space as they settled in bed. He was not sure he was going to sleep at all, his mind reeling at the notion that Tybalt needed him, that he had come to him. He was so nonplussed that he completely forgot about the whole 'Tybalt-was-in-his-bed' business.

It would have been too simple for Mercutio to fall asleep. He who prided himself of sleeping through his entire family stomping along corridors at ungodly hours, through Romeo calling Benvolio in the middle of the night. Damn, he even managed to doze off – practically unnoticed – in Marlowe's class. And there he was, trying not to move a single muscle, breathing as quietly as possible. In short, being so absolutely tense that there was no way he could ever fall asleep. Of course, he could find another type of sleep should he stop breathing altogether, which appeared more and more as a perfectly legitimate way of evading the present situation. Make no mistake, he had entertained the thought of having Tybalt in his bed already. But in this moment, he realized it was too real, too soon, and not at all how he had expected it to happen. He certainly had not expected spending hours fearing that the slightest move, the faintest sound would send Tybalt bolting for the door.

Mercutio felt his presence on the other side of the bed. Too close, and too far at the same time. Tybalt was not moving, but he could not possibly be asleep. Mercutio was no fool, and part of him reflected that Tybalt felt as tense as he was himself, and his breathing was practically unheard, which was a clear sign that Tybalt was not sleeping a wink. This did not help Mercutio's thoughts, which took this grand opportunity to run amok with his sanity. What if Tybalt was hurt that Mercutio kept his distance? Was he waiting for him to make a move? Or was his asking him to stay nothing more but a way to prevent Mercutio from having to take the couch? Mercutio slapped himself inwardly. Tybalt was not the kind to do anything of the sort, especially if he expected the situation to be so awkward. Mercutio considered getting up and actually moving to the couch. But Tybalt had asked him to stay, and he was not going to pretend he forgot. Not when Tybalt was so obviously awake. Mercutio had no wish to let Tybalt question his behaviour, read it as a form of rejection and fall back into the usual resentment. If only he knew what had happened, maybe he would know what was safe to do or say. The only thing he was sure of was that he was not going to leave Tybalt alone.

Taking a deep breath, he finally extended a hand, touching Tybalt's arm lightly. If Tybalt had been tense, it was nothing compared to how he went rigid at the touch. Mercutio did not dare make any further move, and he was relieved to notice that Tybalt did not move either. “I...” Damn him, he was not going to stutter. He tried to keep his voice as soft as possible. “I'm here, Tybalt. I'm here for you. If there's anything you need.” And it probably came out wrong, but he waited. Waited for a derisive laugh, a taunt, any kind of retaliation.

Mercutio was taken aback when Tybalt turned towards him and, just as suddenly, found himself with an armful of Tybalt. He involuntarily shuddered when he felt Tybalt's skin on his – he was shivering, cold as ice. The thought took a moment to register. If Tybalt's skin felt cold to _him_ then he was a lot colder than was healthy. He did not think any further than this: he wrapped his arms around Tybalt, and brought the cover on top of them, making sure that they both were well-covered. Tomorrow, he would have time to think about it, about how they had been fighting for years, and how he did not feel threatened now. He probably should be wondering why _he_ was not recoiling, or trying to shove Tybalt away. Because Tybalt obviously needed him, and after that stint at the party, there was no way he turned him down. Now was not the time. And he figured that if he had questions the next day, he would ask then.

After some time, Mercutio gave in to his urge, and cradled Tybalt in his arms, caressing his hair in a soothing gesture. If that worked for him, there was no reason it would not work on Tybalt. It did not feel as awkward as it would have in the light of day. He felt Tybalt's breath on his neck. Slowly, he noticed Tybalt relaxing, sinking into his touch. He found that it was easier for him to relax then. A sliver of sky was lightening through the curtains, and yet at last, sleep came over him.

He must have fallen asleep because the next time he opened his eyes, bright daylight was cutting through the darkness of the room. And he was alone. He startled. His mind was kicked back into gear as it went through the past night's events. He tumbled down from the bed, grabbed the nearest pair of pants – no way he was caught in his underwear _again –_ and dashed tothe kitchen. He paused only to avoid hitting the doorframe in his hurry, and that was when he caught sight of Tybalt. Tybalt who was going through his cupboards. _Make yourself at home,_ no big deal. Not that he really minded. It could have been worse. Tybalt might have disappeared. Relief washed over him, and he was not even mad at Tybalt for going through his stuff. He yawned loudly to announce his presence, not wishing to give the impression that he was creeping on Tybalt, and greeted him. Of course, it was not to say that the situation was not awkward, but Mercutio's upbringing ensured that he was at least polite. He went to the central panel, and opened it to retrieve a box at the back of the top shelf.

He handed the box to Tybalt. “Instant coffee. I'm afraid that's all I've got.” He took out two mugs, and put the kettle on.

“How did you know?”

“Since the tea is in plain sight, coffee would be the only reason why you'd scour my cupboard at”, he cast a glance at the microwave clock, “ten in the morning.” He smiled. The coffee was something he had bought when Romeo was prone to visit him more often. Since Mercutio usually drank tea, he never saw the point of getting a proper coffee-machine.

Tybalt nodded, and prepared his own coffee, and surprised Mercutio by bringing the tea and the dedicated teaspoon to the table as well. Suddenly, Mercutio wondered who, among Tybalt's relatives, would be a tea-drinker. He shook his head. Tybalt appeared to be in better spirits than last night, and Mercutio was not going to mess it up by bringing up family. Or whatever had driven Tybalt to seek him out in the first place. He was so caught in his thoughts that he almost let the water boil. He stopped the kettle just in time, and poured water in both their mugs. Tea was part of his morning ritual, the one thing he did before anything else, and nothing would disrupt his habits. Not even the terrible smell of instant coffee that pervaded the room, overpowering that of his Earl Grey.

Mercutio had turned back to place the kettle back to its spot when a sharp thud and a yell made him spun on his heels. What he saw was bordering on the comical: Tybalt was standing, his chair knocked on the ground. He had his arms spread, and looked like a vicious animal had tried to attack him. Only then did he notice the puddle of coffee on the table, and the dark stain on Tybalt's clothes. Tybalt remained frozen on the spot for a second, before he looked back at Mercutio. This seemed to set him back on track.

“I'm so sorry, I don't know what got into me. I- I lost my grip on it... You got anything to clean it, a mop or something?”

This, made Mercutio react, and he quickly got a rag to absorb most of the coffee.

“It's fine, Tybalt. Did you burn yourself?” And well, screw it if he sounded concerned. He had had his share of hot beverage burns, and none had been very pleasant. And that coffee was smelling positively revolting. It must have showed, because the next thing he knew, Tybalt was reaching for the rag.

“Let me do it, I know you hate that stuff.” Tybalt proceeded to wipe the table clean, and only when he returned the rag to its place near the sink did he speak again. “I'm fine.”

Except he did not sound fine, at all. He sounded more like a dead man. And so, Mercutio asked him again.

“He wants me to marry Abigail.” Tybalt blurted, not turning around.

Mercutio did a double take, Did he hear that right? “A marriage? Really...” He was flabbergasted, but at the same time, he could not help feeling a pit of bitterness settling in his guts at the thought. He let out a humourless chuckle. “Is there anything I should know about you and Abigail? No wonder  I freaked you out.” That was a low stab, even Mercutio would have to acknowledge that. But there was no helping how hollow he suddenly felt. Of course, that time at the party had been nothing. How he could possibly have thought otherwise was a clear testament of his own stupidity. 

He was not prepared for Tybalt to turn around, glaring daggers at him. A very normal reaction, but Mercutio could not make out the reasons – was it anger that Mercutio was making fun of him? Or was it because there was nothing between him and Abigail at all? In fact, no one ever mentioned Tybalt and Abigail and if they were even _this_ close, Fortinbras would have known. Fortinbras knew everything – and when he did not, the others at the coffeeshop did. He would have slapped himself. Why did he have to run his mouth without thinking. Besides, if Tybalt was fine with the arrangement, he would have punched Mercutio in the face and told him to sod off, instead of storming out of the kitchen to leave. Wait. Thankfully, his brain caught on, and Mercutio practically leapt to take a hold on his arm. Just how worse could it get? 

“I'm sorry, that was uncalled for.”

“Yes, it was.” Tybalt's tone was so cold it chilled him. “Apparently, everything I say is a joke to you. No matter what you said, some things never change.” 

The contained fury in Tybalt stance and expression had the effect of a wake up call for Mercutio. Just how stupid was he? Tybalt would not have come to him if he had expected to be made fun of. In fact, that he had come at all was proof of his trust, and all Mercutio had to do was to speak to destroy everything! Tybalt had probably been desperate – for help, comfort, God knows what. And all  _he_ could do was react like a scorned lover, and try to hurt him.  _Good job, Mercutio. You're really a pro at fucking up._

“Let me go.” Tybalt sounded much more tired than he had, and it was enough for Mercutio to relinquish his grip. What happened that left Tybalt bereft of his usual fire?

He called out his name, and he could not help but find similarities between their current situation and that of Juliet's party last summer.

“You're doing it again.” With that, Tybalt reached for the door. Before he could think, Mercutio had thrown himself between Tybalt and the door, catching his wrist before he could take hold of the doorknob.

They were too close. And closeness always ended up badly with them. But Mercutio was not going to move. If he moved slightly forward, he would be able to touch Tybalt. He would be able to kiss him... His mind came to a screeching halt. Now was not the time to think about snogging a rather furious Tybalt who had proven that he was not above beating people to a pulp. Again, Mercutio himself was known for being reckless.

“Don't. Leave.” he hissed, his grip on Tybalt's wrist tightening. It must be painful but he did not care. “Mocking you was not my intention. I talked shit, as always. But I am not laughing at you, am I? And I'm not letting you leave now, just like that.”

“How about you learn to think before you speak, then?” Tybalt snarled. He twisted his wrist, freeing himself, and now Mercutio was the one whose arm was caught in a vice-like grip. He could feel his bones grind. This was bad. Very bad. To say nothing of Tybalt's expression. Mercutio knew it well. He was very familiar with it, and one of the most memorable times he saw it was when Tybalt came a hair-breadth from murdering him. Quite literally. Tybalt's entire body was tensed, his entire demeanour translating as a promise of painful retribution for Mercutio's disregard for boundaries. Whatever was Mercutio's intent, it did not matter anymore. He never wanted to swallow his words back as much as he did then. He had gone too far, way too far. And he was going to pay the price for it.

“Please, hear me out.” Tybalt's grip was not loosening, and Mercutio wondered if his life expectancy had not dropped to a dramatic five-minute span. “I know you have every reason to be pissed at me, but listen to me. And then you can decide how you're going to kill me.”

“That'd be the first time you're asking if you can speak instead of blabbering away.” Tybalt's tone had not lost its edge but he sounded exhausted. “I'm listening.”

And of course, the instant Tybalt said he was actually listening to him, Mercutio lost his tongue. Or rather, he was grappling with his emotions, what he wanted to say. And what did he want to say anyway? That he had freaked out because Tybalt's uncle wanted to marry him off? That he really thought there was something between him and Abigail, and that alone tore him apart? For someone so renowned for his mastery of language, he sure was stumped. But the truth was that it made him mad, and helpless – and absolutely pissed at himself because how dared he get mad? It was not like he had any right to tell Tybalt what to do with his life, was it? And no matter last night. It was nothing of importance. A voice cut through his maze-like thoughts – Tybalt asking him whether or not he was going to talk.

“I just... It's just that thinking about you and Abigail... it put me on edge.”

Tybalt had let go of his wrist at this, and he simply stared at Mercutio like he had never seen him before – and clearly thought him completely insane.

“It's stupid, I know. Only... I really lost my shit, and I have no right to. You do what you want, and really, I don't know what got into me, making me so mad.” Except he knew exactly what it was – it was the same thing that made him kiss Tybalt at the party, what hurt him so much when Tybalt had rejected him, what had made him feel so much lighter when it turned out Tybalt was not hating him after all. What got him through the summer, and what made him try to stop Tybalt now. It was a nameless thing. And from the look Tybalt was giving him, he might have screamed his thoughts, because he did not seem fooled by his lame speech.

“There is nothing.” Tybalt whispered, and it made Mercutio realize they were mere inches apart. Way too close... Then only did his brain catch on with what Tybalt had just said.

“Heh?” _And we present to you Mercutio Della Scala, orator extraordinaire._ He would kick himself. 

“I won't marry her. I never considered it.”

“Sorry I got so mad. That was stupid.” He lowered his eyes, ashamed it got so out of hand because he could not shut up.

“Yes, it was. But I shouldn't have been so surprised.”

This made Mercutio practically hit Tybalt when he snapped his face back up. Tybalt gave him a half-smile, and that was more than Mercutio could ask for in this moment.

“ _That_ was mean!” He could not help but smile as well. But at the same time, there were things he needed to know. And so, he asked Tybalt why he came to see him the night before – rather than crashing at a friend's. 

Tybalt seemed to flounder for a moment, and Mercutio had to bite his tongue not to comment on how adorable he thought it was.

“I'm not sure... I trust you?” Tybalt fidgeted, and Mercutio was struggling not to react. “I didn't really think about it, it just came about naturally.”

“I could have sent you on your way.” Mercutio did his best to sound casual.

“No, you wouldn't have.” _Not after last time._ The last part when unsaid, but it hung in the air between them. Balancing like a fairy on a swing of spider-web. 

“Thank you, I guess. For trusting me, I mean.” He sighed. “See, I can't speak properly with you around! See what you do to me?”

“Must be something if you can't talk.”

“We are being stupid, aren't we?”

“We are. I'm sorry.” 

“What for?” This was baffling. Tybalt rarely apologized. In fact, Mercutio would not have expected him to apologize to _him_. 

“I couldn't get you out of my head, and when my uncle spoke of a wedding... I just didn't know anymore.”

Mercutio's brain had come to a halt with the first part of the sentence and took ten seconds to process.

“You thought about me?” Part of him was relieved. Because at least he knew that he must have been important to Tybalt. And that he was not the only one thinking about the whole thing. 

Tybalt did not answer him, merely nodding. Mercutio did the only thing he could think of – he laid a hand on Tybalt's shoulder to regain his attention.

“Tybalt... Can I kiss you?”

He saw Tybalt starting and he was so scared that he would bolt. His insides were in a knot, he could barely breathe, and  _why did he have to ask that of all things he could have said?_

He was shocked to see Tybalt nod, apparently too struck to speak. Screwing his courage to the sticking place, Mercutio leaned forward, and kissed him. It was a mere brush of lips, nothing like the snogging session at the party, but it was pleasant. Tybalt did not move away, instead placing a hand to the side of Mercutio's face. They stayed like this for a moment, and Mercutio took the opportunity to commit the instant to memory. Not wanting to waste it, but still reluctant, he pulled away. His face felt hot, and seriously, how could Tybalt do that to him? Although it was nice to see he was not the only one with a sore case of blushing. It was ridiculous. 

“Thank you.” He really meant it. He was grateful – and not just that Tybalt bore with him today. 

“The pleasure's all mine.” Tybalt was smiling, although a bit mischievously. “May I?”

Mercutio nodded. And was not disappointed to find Tybalt kissing him. It was a real kiss then, and he wanted it to last forever, until he could not breathe any longer. Because that kiss made him feel like he mattered, like he was wanted... And these were priceless feelings he had not experienced for so long he had forgotten how it felt. Then the kiss stopped, and Mercutio protested.

“What is it, Mercutio?”

Only then did he notice that his eyes were stinging, and that he was on the verge of crying. He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. He was grateful that Tybalt did not ask him again, and instead held him close. The moment passed slowly, and when he decided he was ready to speak, he changed the subject.

“You'll always be welcome here. Though I'd rather have you call before if you come around in the middle of the night. As for now... You can stay for as long as you want, okay?”

“I can't, I barged in, and really it's not –”

“I'd like you to stay. Please?”

Tybalt stared at him, disbelief etched all over his features. It was understandable, though Mercutio wondered if the lack of middle ground was not just part of their relationship-.

“You do?”

“Nope. I always offer my hospitality to people I don't want to have around.” He paused, letting the sarcasm drop. “Of course, I do.” He just could not resist giving Tybalt a peck on the cheek for punctuation.

“Now,” Mercutio went on, “if you don't mind, I'd like to have my breakfast. And get you another cup of coffee. If you could avoid spilling it, that'd be awesome. That thing's smell is revolting enough as it is.” He made a face, and went around Tybalt to get back to the kitchen.

“Still, at least it _tastes_ something. Not like your herbal water,” Tybalt smirked, following him.

“Still, at least it smells nice. Not like your coffee.”

“I've known you sharper...” Tybalt drawled. Mercutio chose to ignore it, because it was really nice to banter with Tybalt. And if he was not mistaken, the feeling was mutual. Maybe today would not be such a bad day, after all.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“I really have to go back to my place,” Tybalt said when they had finished breakfast. It sounded more like a question, and if he were honest, he didn't really want to go. Besides, how would Mercutio take it, after he so keenly insisted that he was welcome here for as long as he wanted?

“You don't want to stay?” Mercutio's voice sounded like he thoughtTybalt was leaving, not to come back; like what they shared earlier had all been a lie. Tybalt could not say what it did to him, to see Mercutio like that. It tore him inside out, to know that it was something he said that apparently made Mercutio question what happened between them. Except he could not very well articulate that aloud.

“I barged in yesterday.” _You said that earlier already_ , he castigated himself. Like it wasn't evident. “I need my things. I mean, I'll have either Jules or Rosa bring me what I left at _zio_ 's when... Last night.” 

“And you don't want to make them come here.”

Tybalt sighed: “No.” Seeing Mercutio shrink in his seat, he quickly added: “Not out of shame!” It did not seem to soothe Mercutio, so he explained: “I just want to be able to figure this whole thing out without anyone giving us a piece of their mind.”  _And I don't want you to suffer from this marriage business_ , he added to himself. He'd have to figure it out for himself, or maybe with Abigail's help, but if they... if he and Mercutio were to have a chance, he wouldn't let his family waste it for him. 

“Oh.” Mercutio pouted, but he seemed to accept this answer.

“I can come back, though.” He was hesitant to impose himself on him, but since Mercutio had offered earlier... All the same, he did not want to be on his own after this. “Or you could... I don't want to bother you and Ben, that is.” Maybe Benvolio wouldn't like to see him around, and after all the altercations with Mercutio, he couldn't blame him. Of course, Benvolio probably wouldn't say anything to him, but...

“Ben's barely ever here anymore, you know?” Mercutio answered, cutting his thoughts off. “He's just keeping his room so Romeo doesn't insist on moving in. I thought you knew...”

“I don't think we had to discuss sleeping arrangement until now, actually." He offered a half-smile. It was true, after all. Why would they have had that kind of discussion? “I mean, I know he's at Rosa's more often than not but I don't keep tabs on their arrangements.” He shrugged. This was the least of his concerns. He trusted Rosaline to take care of herself, and the man was obviously good to her. It was all that really mattered to him. Well, and the fact that it could be just him and Mercutio, if he wanted.

Mercutio started to fuss around him.

“I can't let you leave like that.” It was pouring outside. “You'll catch your death, and then I'll have an army of Capulet lawyers at my door accusing me of thwarting all their marriage plans.”

Tybalt smiled in spite of himself.

“But think of all the drowned cat puns you could make.”

Mercutio stared in disbelief. Ah, so he really didn't expect that Tybalt could take that whole cat comparison as anything but an offence.

“It's not like you to miss such an opportunity,” Tybalt went on.

“Buuuut if you spot them before I can make them, it spoils all the fun!” Mercutio complained, purposefully acting like a kid, before getting serious again just as quick. “At least take a rain coat? I wouldn't want kitty to get his paws wet.”

Mercutio didn't wait for his answer, and dragged him to a closet in the hallway that Tybalt hadn't really noticed before. He pulled out a purple rain coat and wrapped him in it, adding a scarf for good measure.

Tybalt couldn't repress another smile. He was doing a lot of that, lately. “Is it so I'm not cold, or so I have a reason to come back?”

Mercutio gently pulled him by the coat's collar to kiss him, just a peck, and he could feel him smile back against his lips.

“Can't it be both?”

He grinned. “Who knew Della Scalas could be so sappy?”

“I'm not! Don't believe the lies, Della Scalas are not sappy. It's unprincely!” Mercutio protested, but if the smile on his face was any indication, he wasn't taking any offence.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahoy! (A bit late for Christmas, but still.)  
> Do skip if not comfortable - you will not miss anything plotwise if you do.

“We don't have to, if you're uncomfortable.”

“You must be really bad at reading people if you are still under the impression that I am uncomfortable. I don't know how to make it clearer to you, really. Aside from jumping your bones right there and then, but unlike some, I respect boundaries.”

Mercutio scoffed: “And we both know just how much of a paragon of virtue you are.”

“Because you had any doubt? You wound me...”

Of course, Tybalt was right, and no amount of easy banter could cover the fact that he did stall. And quite a lot. It had been going on for some time now, and even then Mercutio was unsure. He was certain of his feelings towards Tybalt, and it was mutual, no question there. But since their relationship did a U-turn, it was harder for him to decide when to take another step. Not that he did not want to bed Tybalt. They had grown used to the closeness, but while they now were comfortable in sharing a bed, Mercutio had been stumped as to 'how to get Tybalt to fuck him into next week', as he once told a nonplussed Tybalt. Although he was fairly sure the surprise was due to his word choice rather than the prospect.

Back to the problem at hand, Mercutio was weighing his options. He and Tybalt were sprawled on Tybalt's couch – so much for boundaries – and he was perfectly content like this. But not content enough not to be struggling to keep his hands to himself. It was something he had been aware of for a while already: he had to touch Tybalt. Even more than he usually sought contact with people – poor Benvolio often had to bear the brunt of it. To make it even worse, Tybalt was looking so completely relaxed, stretched across the couch. And sporting a rather irritated expression, one that Mercutio was very familiar with. And reminded him so much of certain relatives that he almost smiled. Almost.

“Did you even listen to me?”

“Huh?” Okay, so apparently Tybalt had been speaking and he was not even listening. Not that it was his fault he could not concentrate. He did concentrate, he-

“Shut it, will you?”

He was affronted. “I didn't say anything!”

Tybalt sighed, flopping back on the couch. “You think too loudly.”

“Did you say anything after not being uncomfortable and having respect for boundaries, which translates as 'I'd happily fuck you if only you weren't being such an indecisive _stronzo_ to begin with'?”

Tybalt groaned: “Your translation. But no, I didn't say anything more.”

“But it was a fair translation, right?”

Tybalt looked taken aback, letting out a “I guess so-”. Mercutio did not let him finish, kissing him on the spot. That was another thing he could not help: wanting to kiss Tybalt way too often. Though there was no such thing as 'too often'. He yelped when Tybalt grabbed him and backed him against the other armrest. He let Tybalt take the lead, relishing the attention and simply holding onto his shoulders to keep his balance. He could practically feel Tybalt's skin through the thin shirt, warm and inviting. He needed more. A sharp nip at his lower lip proved that he was not the only one.

Mercutio strengthened his hold on Tybalt, bringing him closer to him. He let out a breath when Tybalt's thigh brushed against his crotch. He cursed, and the satisfied look on Tybalt's face clearly indicated it was no accident. Mercutio kissed him in retaliation, making a show of licking his lips, nipping none too gently. He deepened the kiss, smiling when he managed to draw a low moan from his lover. They parted, reluctantly, and it was all Mercutio could do not to beg him to take him right there and then. The couch was not the best place for a first time, that much he knew. He carded his fingers in Tybalt's hair, pulling slightly, gently drawing his head to the side – exposing his neck. This he was allowed – though it took a few hissy fits. Mercutio could not resist nipping the skin right under the jaw, licking at the small bite. He felt Tybalt's heartbeat under his lips. “I need you. Please...” He drew it out, and even though he just mouthed the words instead of speaking loud and clear, the near-moan that Tybalt let out was answer enough.

However, to get to the next part, they had to get up. Knowing this, he still let out a disapproving sound when Tybalt moved away from him. Although Mercutio was not going to let him go too far, and as soon as he was up as well, he pressed himself flush against Tybalt's back, arms around his waist. He idly remarked that they were almost the same height. For some reason, his Prince of Cats always carried himself in such a way that he seemed taller.

“Mercutio...”

“Hmmmm.”

“We won't get anywhere if you stick to me like a barnacle....”

Instead of backing down, an idea sprang to mind. “I'm sure I can make it better.” He did not wait for Tybalt to react and slipped his hands under the hem of Tybalt's shirt. He felt him tense for an instant, before relaxing minutely. Mercutio took his time to lift his shirt , exposing his skin. Scars stood out in the light – he trailed his fingers along each one – every scar had a story, or so he had always been told. Maybe one day he would learn them. He wanted to learn.

In an instant, he had gotten rid of his own shirt, and walked around to face Tybalt. It was almost like looking in a mirror, but not quite – he saw the desire etched on his face, tempered by what could only be apprehension. Mercutio was not cruel – he had already guessed he would have to move slowly – until now, he had been careful not to overstep. This was different, and he was certain, without needing to ask, that Tybalt would be a bit daunted. Mercutio brought his hands to his face, his thumbs brushing the light stubble he found – how people would stay clear of Tybalt made no sense to him. Even such a foul temper would not deter him. To be fair, Mercutio could get used to it, to have him staring at him so intently, as if he were the most important thing in the world. He needed this, to have finally someone who would truly look at him, and see him – not just a jester having fun ruining everyone's life on campus. Not just the Capulets' bane – because he was not. In fact, no one else saw who he was half the time, not his brother, whom he had kept away from that very reason, nor his friends. In fact, aside from Benvolio, and his cousin, no one else really saw him. He was grateful for Tybalt's sharp words. It had made him feel alive. He felt alive, simply staring at him, touching him. More so than he had in years.

His next words were spoken softly: “We can stop at any moment.” He knew it would annoy Tybalt – but he would never force himself on him, no matter how much he wanted the Prince of Cats to be his. He could see Tybalt getting ready to let out a scathing reply, so he cut him off. “Trust me.” He had wanted to – wanted to tell him he loved him – but he was unsure. It was not a word he really wanted to use. It was too much for now. It did not really matter, in the end.

He kissed him again, silencing any protest – he could feel his pulse race, as though his heart was connected to his lips, drawing strings tight. It made him light-headed – he caught strands of Tybalt's hair in one hand, the other roaming from his neck, down his chest, to his hip. His skin smooth and hot under his hand – he could feel the minutest shift, every muscle moving under his fingers. Details he had stopped noticing over time. He could not prevent himself from moaning when Tybalt mirrored his actions, exploring his mouth in a way that had his mind wander. Well, not for long. He would have time for this later. Without breaking the kiss, he walked backward, steering Tybalt to where he thought the bed was – and hit the nightstand. Okay, maybe he had not cared overmuch about his surroundings.

"Could've told me." 

"It was a nice try." The smile Tybalt gave him was worth every nightstand messup in the world. And it left him with a dilemma – he did not want this smile to disappear, but he wanted to kiss Tybalt. Luckily, he did not even need to decide, as he was led to the bed. To have Tybalt sitting here, shirtless – and his long legs spread for comfort – sent Mercutio's brain in a panic. There were so many things he wanted to do to him and he did not even know where to start.

"Mercutio...?" 

Oh, fuck him, he probably spaced out for longer than expected. He eyed Tybalt carefully, trying to find any trace of discomfort. He was not disappointed – Tybalt looked a bit on edge. Honestly, he could not blame him. Better start slow – as slow as he could bear in his current predicament, which was not much.

"You probably enjoy the view but if you could snap out of it, that'd be cool." Now, that was the Tybalt he knew and loved. Actually, Mercutio could get used used to the renewed hunger he saw in Tybalt, to have his dark eyes roving over his body – he could practically tell what Tybalt was looking at precisely. 

In the end caution was thrown to the wind as soon as he stood between his lover's legs. He leaned forward until he had forced Tybalt to recline on his elbows, using his hands to support himself. So many things he wanted to do – so little time. Better not think too much about that. His hair got in his face – it was turning into a habit, an annoying one. Getting a knee on the edge of the mattress, he managed to shift his weight so that he could lean over Tybalt – waiting.

“What do you want, Prince?”

The scoff it earned him was worth it. It was still Tybalt. It did not last long – they were so close it was easy for Mercutio to read his expression. The indecisiveness that flitted across his features. He was not prepared for Tybalt leaning upwards, their lips millimeters apart.

“Anything you want.”

Mercutio be damned if that was not the hottest thing he ever heard in his life. And of course, he had to blurt out the first thing that came to his mind.

“Ravish me, boyfriend!” He actually yelled it, and it probably should have made him cringe, but really, Tybalt's face was priceless. He was staring at him like Mercutio suddenly turned into a pink otter or something just as preposterous. It was an effective mood-killer if there ever was one.

Tybalt groaned: “That-”

“Came out wrong. But that's the idea.”

Tybalt did not budge – his stance made it clear that he was not reluctant but rather hesitant. As though he had no idea where to start. It would not be said that Mercutio was not helpful, and so, he decided to take matters in his own hands. So to speak. He let himself slide down Tybalt's body until his knees hit the floor. Looking up, he was pleased to notice that his lover seemed not to be able to tear his eyes from him.

Slowly, Mercutio got Tybalt out of the remainder of his clothes. And he certainly made a show of it – partly because he had a reputation to uphold, and partly because he just had to. A frustrated groan rewarded him as he let his hands wander, doing his best to keep the touch light. “I am not made of glass, Mercutio, damn you!” And he could not agree more. He wished he could take a bit more time to just stare at Tybalt, commit every detail to memory – but he could not take it. Not when he had him finally naked – and apparently ready to tear his head from his shoulders in a rage if he did not make a move. As if he had read his mind, Tybalt pushed on his hands to rise, in a move that would no doubt have sent them sprawling on the floor. Mercutio acted on impulse and met him halfway, his momentum making him fall on top of Tybalt. Now, he would not complain. Even if he distinctly heard him growl for him to get off. Getting off was exactly what he had in mind. The next second, he wished he had not thought that because if his pants had been quite tight for a bit, now they were trying to murder him. He was going to die, with his jeans on, on top of a very naked Tybalt Capulet. The University newspapers would have a field day – and he would not even be there to grab the royalties.

For some reason, the thought of his impending death did absolutely nothing for his hard-on. In fact, it got even worse. He yelped when cool hands slid down his sides, fingers digging under the waistband of his jeans. They had to go, now. Without being aware of how exactly, he managed to get some leverage, so that he was no longer pressed entirely against Tybalt. His lover got the hint, and looked at him the entire time it took Tybalt to wrestle the last of Mercutio's garments from his hips. He almost snarled when those stupid pants would not come off, damnit. As soon as he could, he crawled back on top of Tybalt, kissing him roughly as he let his hands freely roam over hot skin and taut muscles – how beautiful he was... The moan that elicited from Tybalt went straight through – he latched on his neck, racking his nails across his ribs. This drew out a hiss, and Mercutio could not help himself when Tybalt clawed at his shoulders, his back arching to the point of visible pain.

“Tybalt.”

To hear his name seemed to have brought him back, but not quite. One hand let go of his shoulder and trailed down his body – it was all Mercutio could do not to scream and just rut against him. That would have been rather ungentlemanly. Oh gods, screw gentlemanly – because right now, Tybalt was touching him. Some time later, he probably would reflect that moaning shamelessly the moment Tybalt started to stroke him was not the most sensible thing ever. Of course he had had handjobs – pros and amateurs, thank you – but that it was Tybalt's fingers wrapped around his cock definitely aced it. His breath came out in pants, he could not get enough air. Of course, such thoughtful action had to be rewarded in kind. Trailing his hand to a sharp hipbone, he was met by a growl – fine, fine, no more messing around. Instantly, he kind of regretted that it was only his hand, because the shivers that racked Tybalt were just too good. 

"Mercutio!" It was a whisper, and definite proof that the Prince of Cats had lost his composure. Himself could not very well tell when he finally lost the remainder of his brain. It was already gone by the time Tybalt hooked his legs around him, and reversed their position in an instant. Alright, he had not anticipated finding himself straddled by a very feral-looking Tybalt – not that he would ever complain. If anything, it was even more of a turn on. Apparently, Tybalt could not think either, and probably tossed whatever restraint to the wind. A roll of his hips, that was more of a stutter – his hands splayed on his shoulders. Truth be told, if he weren't so painfully hard, Mercutio was certain he could stay there all day. Almost. Maybe Tybalt was possessed by a devil or something, because the only moments he would look at Mercutio like that was when he was ready to pounce to deal any kind of blow.His hands moved to Tybalt's hips, as he resisted the urge to resume his ministrations – he needed him, he had to have him – _now!_ His grip was so strong he was aware there might be marks the next day. Nevermind.

Tybalt cut his train of thoughts short, bending over so their foreheads touched: “Just stop thinking, why don't you?” And Mercutio would not have reacted any other way had Tybalt screamed 'take me' – something he doubted would ever happen as long as they lived. He rolled Tybalt over, reaching for the lube. It was not like they really had planned anything, but since his lover had just stared at him when Mercutio first mentioned it, he had thought it best to be prepared. _Wrong vocab again, damnit Della Scala!_ No time to be classy.

There they were – he could not believe it – it could not be real, as he got lube on his fingers. How he managed to have Tybalt sprawled over the bed was beyond him. "Hurry up, damn you." There was no bite to his tone and Mercutio had to admit he was holding up pretty well. His own first experience with a man was not the like of which he much cared to recall. He vowed to himself to make it good for his lover – very much so.

He nudged his thighs apart, his skin burning and itching with every touch. Mercutio did his best to distract Tybalt, laying open-mouthed kisses on his throat, his chest – he could not get enough. His teeth grazed his skin, sometimes biting before licking at the nick, as though in apologies. He cast a glance towards Tybalt, noticing he had closed his eyes. Pressing against his entrance, his gaze did not leave Tybalt's face – he knew it would be uncomfortable, painful even. When Tybalt's eyes snapped open, he could see his emotions battling – pain, desire, and trust. Mercutio kept still – he did not want Tybalt to hurt any more than necessary, and he really wondered at his newfound restraint. If he had once called him fiery, it was time to revise the wording, because he was a furnace. A pounding ache coiled in his belly – a hunger that he did not think he could sate.

Hesitation wormed its way, stilling all his movement – until Tybalt destroyed it by catching his free arm in an iron-grip, his entire body arching into Mercutio's touch. And if that was not a compelling sight. He did not stop, not until he could not take it anymore – not until Tybalt was a panting mess, his entire body taut from the restraint. In short, not until Tybalt grabbed him by the back of his neck, and bared his teeth. It was not as aggressive as it should have been, Mercutio choosing this moment to twist his fingers, brushing against his lover's prostate. The look on Tybalt's face was burned in his retina, and would remain so. Mercutio did his best to have him a writhing, moaning mess – which did not prevent Tybalt from keeping just enough composure to address: “Gods, I need more. Mercutio, please!” Truly, he had to be too far gone for even pleading. It would not be said that he left his lover hanging by the edge.

On second thoughts, it was probably not the best idea he ever had. It would have been easier had he asked Tybalt to turn around – but he knew the man well enough to assert that it would have been an awful move. No matter their current situation, Tybalt was not used to outward displays of submission – and Mercutio did not want to risk it. And in a way it was worth it. That way, he could concentrate on Tybalt's features, trying to ignore the scorching heat of his body. It was almost painful, and he had to remind himself that he was the first. The first man to ever touch Tybalt, to be allowed in his bed – and gods, the first man to be given a chance to make love to him. It was not a cheap fuck, no – had it been the case, he probably would have been almost done by then. Tybalt had finally let go of his arm, and he stroke his hair, his face, while he supported himself with the other. It felt like hours until he was fully sheathed – and he did not even know if it was bliss he felt, or pain. A mix of both, and he did not dare move. Well, until Tybalt showed him his superior non-verbal skills in growling him into motion. It was not as bad, and maybe the Prince of Cats himself did not realize he made that sound.

While he had originally endeavoured to set a slow, nearly languid pace, Mercutio had to face the fact that gentle was not going hand in hand with an 'I've been wanting you for so long I can't even think' situation. Which was exactly theirs. He picked up a pace, and really, it was glorious – burning but glorious – and to feel blunt nails rake his shoulders and sides was almost too much. He could not keep his mouth from Tybalt, kissing him, tasting him – he thought he had died when his lover sucked on his tongue. Gods. He had not idea where it came from but he rather liked that Tybalt. He liked him almost too much. The feeling of those strong legs wrapping around his waist, forcing him forward – deeper still – he could not get enough. He was close, so desperately reaching for his climax. Tybalt urged him on, making absolutely no sense but it still registered – his pace grew vicious, erratic – he was losing himself. Trying to keep his aim with each thrust, he lightly stroked Tybalt – it did not take much more for his lover to reach his peak. Mercutio swallowed his cries, relishing in the feeling of his lover spilling his seed in his hand. To have him clench around him so hard threw Mercutio over the edge – he came with a broken sob of Tybalt's name, only to have the breath stolen from him in a searing kiss. He was soaring, he was somewhere. Somewhere safe.

Later, when Mercutio lay in bed, he did with his head on Tybalt's shoulder, a leg thrown over his hips. He felt at peace, more so than he had in years. So maybe he went over the top, maybe he had been infuriatingly dopey when dealing with Tybalt. No matter. He was happy – and he was even happier to see that his lover had a peaceful expression as he slept. His new goal was to bring a smile to his face as often as he could. Because Tybalt deserved it, and he cared not if he himself was not always the best at everything. And really, even if it was the cheesiest possible way to put it, he could not care less. Let others worry about propriety and what was done or not. Heck, why was he even thinking about that kind of stuff? He sighed, nuzzled Tybalt's shoulder, not even bothering getting his hair out of his face.

“Stop thinking so loudly.”

The tone was lazy, sleepy, and yeah, Mercutio could totally stop thinking. Sure. Like now. Like – Okay, so apparently Tybalt getting kissy and handsy did wonder for his brain as it stopped working. It took time, and they still had a long road ahead – but of this Mercutio was certain: Tybalt was his. And one day, he'll get away with calling him Tybbles!


	5. Chapter 5

When the alarm clock went off, Mercutio's first impulse was always to grab the offending item to throw it on the floor. Only this time his hand did not make it to the nightstand – and smacked Tybalt right in the nose. _Ouch, kitty will be grumpy..._

"The hell..." 

Way to wake someone! And the alarm still blared. 

"Alarm."

Mercutio felt Tybalt move, and then the noise mercifully stopped.

"Thanks. And sorry." Mercutio scooted over until he was half on top of him, nuzzling his neck. A sigh of contentment escaped him when Tybalt's warm hand lazily moved down and up his back. 

"You're welcome, I love getting your hand in my face." 

It was too early for sarcasm to work, Mercutio decided. He merely clung to Tybalt, not wishing to move. He was perfectly comfy, and ready to go back to sleep.

"You are supposed to have a class."

Mercutio groaned a rather painful 'no'.

"Merc'..." Huho, the 'I am not impressed' tone. 

"Too comfy." He would not budge, he was fine and happy and Tybalt was a great pillow. A sleepy, warm pillow. Apparently Tybalt was back to his doze, which suited him just fine. Just as he was falling asleep, lulled by the rise and fall of his lover's chest, the door was wrung open.

He probably should have moved, yelled, done something. But all he could do was raise his head and stare – blearily – at the offender. Romeo. Romeo, who was staring as though he had seen a hydra or a gorgon or something. 

"What the fuck?!" Not a gorgon, then, because he still could talk.

"Heh?" Okay, someone cut him some slack, he was half-dead. Tybalt stiffened under him and really, he had to do something because Romeo was a dead man. 

"What the fuck you think you're doing?" Count on Romeo to make it worse...

"We were actually sleeping, you nitwit. Now kindly sod off and die!"

Hum, he quite liked it when Tybalt was grumpy and just growled – especially the growling part. He absent-mindedly stroked Tybalt's shoulder, trying to pacify him somehow. And fuck, now Romeo was staring. And even better, Tybalt noticed. The arm that was previously running down his back stilled, his hand resting on Mercutio's hip. He actually had to bite down the urge to just grind against Tybalt. For real. And Romeo still did not get the hint.

"Montague. GET. OUT!" And if that was not a roar... But it did make Romeo snap out of it, and off he went like a scared rabbit – slamming the door shut in the process. Surprisingly, the door survived, and so did the hinges.

Mercutio just let himself flop back on top of Tybalt, hiding his face in the crook of his neck.

"Remind me to change all the locks."

"If you don't, I'll change them myself."

Mercutio just wanted to smile, because the thought of Tybalt actually messing with the doors was funny. And not just that: "By the way, that was some mighty yell."

"He was ogling you."

Oh, that was... okay, unexpected. Kind of. But hey, he was that hot! "And..."

"No one gets to stare at you – especially when you are naked. No one but me."

"Well, you know how to talk to a man..."

"Guess I had a good teacher." A smirk. Oh, Mercutio liked it.

"Great, now, how about we–"

"Get you to uni? Absolutely!"

He groaned. Evil Tybalt. Evil, evil Tybbles! "I hate you..."

"Words, just words. Now, do I have to dump you in the shower?"

"But I have a presentation for Marlowe!"

Oh, the not impressed air was back on. That was probably the worst thing he could have said to sway Tybalt on his side.

"All the more reason. Now up you get."

"No!"

"Fine."

Right then, Mercutio should have known it was bad. Tybalt simply got up, forcing him... On the floor – half, really. Oh and there it was, the folder he had lost the week before, under the bed.

 

While Mercutio and Tybalt had agreed to keep their relationship fairly quiet – lest the relatives would decide to blow a fuse and do whatever stupid things older people did when annoyed – Mercutio still had to tell Benvolio. If only to explain why Romeo was giving Mercutio a wide berth that day.

"Wait wait wait – Tybalt let Romeo live?" Benvolio was flabbergasted. Tybalt must have been losing his touch.

"Don't ask me." Mercutio's shrug was way too casual to be genuine.

"I won't. I already have too many details to contend with." What did he need to know about Mercutio and Tybalt in bed?

"Details? No way! I didn't even tell you how he–"

"Not listening!" Benvolio actually put his hands on his ears. And now his brain was providing him with mental images...

"You're no fun, Benny."

"Don't call me that. Do I tell you about me and Rosaline?"

"Maybe you should."

Benvolio groaned. What had he ever done to deserve such a fate?

"Come on!"

"It'll just give you an excuse to rave about Tybalt, and while he's fine by me, there's only so much I can listen to from you." And then Benvolio added, for good measure: "besides, I see him often, so I _know_ he's handsome."

"Don't go and hit on him!"

"Are you insane? No wait, don't answer that." So much for his quiet morning at the library. "On second thoughts, he should have let you sleep in. It'd be quieter."

"I know – I told him but Tybbles didn't listen."

Okay, maybe Benvolio was not so immune to Mercutio's nonsense. What the hell was that?

"Don't tell me you call him that to his face because this is way too ridiculous even by my standards."

Mercutio went very still, before fishing his phone from his pocket. He looked almost shaken.

"Ben, do you think Tybalt reads minds?"

"Why do you ask?"

Okay, Mercutio managed to defy the odds and got crazier. Or not, because when Mercutio shoved his phone in front of him, he had to admit it was strange. _Call me that again and you'll spend the night on your lonesome._ That was odd indeed – and a harsh consequence, because the more it went, the more obvious it became that Mercutio needed Tybalt to function. Which was a welcome change, but still a bit scary.

Another text came in, and without asking, he opened it. _If I read minds I would have a hard time sorting the mess you call a brain._  To say nothing of dirty thoughts, because half what Mercutio said was a reference to sex, the rest was a would-be innuendo – and Benvolio was certain Mercutio did not voice all his thoughts. He did not even notice his friend grabbing his phone to read until he cried: "See? He can read minds!"

"Only when you scream them – it's a library." There was something rather scary at hearing Tybalt's voice coming from above. It was like God talking to you – only Tybalt was real and snarky.

It was enough to send Mercutio flying from his chair, which was kind of hilarious. "Where the frigging heck–"

"Language. And check the mezzanine next time." And true to form, Benvolio looked up to stare back at a rather smug Tybalt. Though he did look a bit put off. God sat on a black cloud and Tybalt in a plush armchair. Things couldn't be weirder.

"I didn't see you," complained Mercutio.

"That's the point – this place is a hiding spot. And you'd never come here anyway."

Benvolio guessed he knew exactly what Tybalt was getting at. He was proven right by Marlowe and Nashe making their way to the stairs. Mercutio tended to avoid Kit Marlowe outside of class – something to do with him procrastinating. Benvolio could not make out what they said but Marlowe was clearly in a bad mood. He was not the only one, if Mercutio shrinking into his chair was anything to go by.

"Alright, I have to run. I sorta told Antonio I'd catch up with him."

"Shylock's assistant? Nope. Let your Italian laws, you can't leave me here."

"Don't be a child, Merc. Nashe will protect you if the other two decide to make you pay for your stupidity.

"I don't work for free, people. Especially not if it's about standing between Kit and Della Scala!"

“Why do you have to say it like that? You are the one who should pay for his stupidity.”

Benvolio left Mercutio sinking further in his armchair while Marlowe was proceeding to maul Nashe further. A last glance at the mezzanine on his way out showed Tybalt reading, as though nothing was happening. Benvolio shook his head – he had no idea where he had landed, but it was the most insane place he ever came across, that was certain.


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes, Horatio really questioned his friends' sanity. Not Hamlet's – he was too good at playing the raving nutcase, but that was a façade. But lately, it seemed that everyone was flying off the handle or going bonkers about nothing. Maybe there was something in the water. He had seen Mercutio waiting for his appointment, waging a text war against Romeo on the latter's academic choices. He was told that for Romeo to take literature was like shooting yourself in the foot and then claim you stepped on a shard: nonsense. Duncan, from the Medieval History department, was on the phone, arguing with Macbeth's wife who refused to pass the phone to her husband – and really, cells existed!

Currently, Horatio was drowning in a sea of papers – because that's what happens when you write down a quote but not where you found it. He really did not need this! He was almost relieved when someone came in – the silence was getting to him. It was Tybalt, arms laden with books, immediately followed by an equally burdened Benvolio. Which in itself was not weird – no, what was unsettling is that the two talked without animosity. Never mind Benvolio rarely argued with anyone, but Tybalt had a temper like a ticking bomb. So yeah. And he was staring. Damnit! He burrowed back into his books.

"Oh, hi Horatio. Didn't see you there." Because Benvolio had to greet him – of course he did.

"How could anyone miss a wall of books on a table?" _Thank you, Tybalt, for actually saying it._

"Afternoon to you both." It was at this occasion that Horatio finally understood what was weird: Tybalt was not even acting pissed, he even smiled as he nodded his greetings. Okay, it was tiny, but after years of the sourpuss treatment, any change was to be noticed. And he had to berate himself for noting that he was handsome, never mind that those Italians always had a knack for clothes.  _Horatio, it's time for a break. When you start with fashion, it's a sign your brain is melting._ To be fair, he was not attracted to Tybalt Capulet, he just noticed things. Like Ariel seeming more cheerful than usual, Jonson carefully avoiding Marlowe... Though really, everyone seemed to avoid Marlowe. It rarely ever fazed him at all – he grew up with Hamlet, almost, and he was used to having people glower from sunrise to sundown. The only thing was, Hamlet's father was not the one grading essays. Speaking of which, he had to find that reference, and fast! He went back to work, sighing – if only he had been more careful...

“That ominously looks like an orphaned quote.”

“Sounds like you know all about these, Tybalt.” Horatio was grateful for the interruption, because that way he would stop berating himself. And it was rare of Tybalt to strike a conversation, so he was all for it.

“Trust me – most of the time I don't notice until Macbeth sends me an email about missing references and how much he would love me if I got everything right on the first try.”

“Are you kidding?” That was not something Macbeth would say, no sir. Or was it?

Tybalt let out a chuckle and it made Horatio want to ask what he did to the original Tybalt. But he just stared. “About the part where he declared his undying love of me, yes. Though he said something to that effect – more like: you would be absolutely brilliant if only you did not give the impression of being a closeted plagiarist.”

“That stings. Though I guess he's right.”

“This is a library, not a blasted parlour!”

Whenever Prospero started to yell, things were bound to go downhill. Better not antagonize him. Well, that's what he had aimed for, before his gaze crossed Benvolio's and Tybalt's: he could not help but laugh – not too loudly.

“True, because a proper parlour has hot beverages.”

“Don't mention it, I am dying for a coffee.” And it was true – he has been sitting here for hours, so long he would not be surprised if his ass had gotten numb.

Tybalt seemed to perk up at this. “Let's just hit the coffee-shop across from Uni whenever you're done.”

“Didn't you have coffee already?”

“Dare call that Nescafe shit coffee, and you're in trouble, Benvolio.”

“Can't say, I don't particularly care for coffee – except in Angelica's tiramisù, but that's another story.” The look on Benvolio's face was positively ecstatic.

“Your life must be so bleak, man...”

“Tea is better.”

Horatio winced at this. If that was not something he has been hearing over and over again for years. That coffee was tasteless and awful, and how only tea was worth it. Apparently, his fellow students caught on it, as Benvolio promptly apologized.

“Don't worry – I got used to it. But they do have tea.”

“Teabags, no, I'm going to coerce one of you into getting me some hot chocolate.” Really, whoever would resist Benvolio when he decided to turn on the charm? It made Horatio smile, more than anything and – oh wait.

“There it is!” He would have leaped from his seat. Or maybe he did – which would explain why he managed to hit the desk with enough force for it to hurt. Considering the befuddled expression the other two wore – and Prospero's blood-curling scream – it must have been something. “Sorry about that.” Now, to write that reference down, just in case it disappeared if he stopped looking at it for two seconds. He did not particularly care if he looked like a total lunatic – because it was common knowledge that all History students were insane. Worse than pretty much anyone else, that is.

“Okay, now, coffee!” Tybalt said, settling the matter. They gathered their books and stacked them on one end of the table. It was not like anyone else would go around to check on these or try to borrow them. One of the perks of studying stuff no one else did.

Making their way downstairs, they came across a rather worn-looking Romeo – who did not even seem to see them. Which was all good. Horatio just looked at Benvolio, nodding towards Romeo's retreating form.

_Nope, I let the zombie go_ _,_ was the mouthed reply. Apparently things had yet to settle down. Romeo was still in a daze. He had been in a daze for a few days, apparently – that Horatio knew because he was literally haunting the library and for once, he saw Romeo around. Once they finally got down to coffee-shop and got their drinks, they went out. Horatio was just dying for a smoke. It was a bad habit, and one he rarely indulged in, but these days he was just besides himself. He was so caught in his thoughts that he did not notice Mercutio walking towards them until he was in Horatio's face – quite literally.

“Cancer sticks are so last season.”

Count on Mercutio to ruin it. Horatio sighed, and just rolled his eyes. “I am an adult.”

“You are poisoning us, man!”

Okay, maybe Mercutio did not entirely deserve the withering stare he gave him. But he deserved it eighty percent. At least.

“Aren't you supposed to be doing something right now?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Ben.”

Horatio kept silent, unsure what to do, and merely drank his coffee.

“Appointment with your dear Literature teacher, because you had a thesis statement to hand over two days ago and I know you didn't.”

Mercutio visibly deflated, and looked to him and Tybalt for support. Tybalt merely shook his head, telling Mercutio to just own up. Horatio himself did not really know what to say.

“It's not my fault, Ben, I swear!” Mercutio turned to Tybalt, pointing at him. Tybalt did not call him out, but Horatio had a feeling it won't end so well. “I got distracted! But the paper was sent on time!”

Wait what? Okay, the world flipped over, Hell's the new Eden and he probably missed a few trains. Mercutio was accusing Tybalt of distracting him? And Tybalt was not even retaliating? What on earth was going on? Okay, he heard of the Capulet's party for Juliet's graduation from Rosaline but he was pretty sure she said nothing about those two arch-enemies not trying to kill each other – literally or metaphorically for that matter. It made sense in context but it was just too much information at once. Or maybe he was just blind? Or so drowned by two huge projects that he saw nothing? He did not even notice Ophelia dumping Hamlet until Hamlet proudly announced that they were back together. It was not that it bothered him, but it looked like Mercutio was flirting with Tybalt and it was just too weird not to be noticed.. It helped that Benvolio seemed absolutely unfazed. It meant it was normal. Though not many things ever sent Benvolio flying off the handle in general.

Tybalt's huff brought his attention back: “Distracted by what exactly? I was working when you practically tore my computer away.”

He had to pipe in at this: “Guys, whatever you do in your spare time, I don't wanna know.” He truly did not. Benvolio was nodding frantically.

“You guys are no fun. But hey, I'll be late. See you 'round!” And with that Mercutio dashed away. Like this would save him.

“I wonder how he does it...”

“What do you mean, Horatio?”

“Getting away with pulling Tybalt's leg like that, or still taking Marlowe's class. Mostly Marlowe. He gets Hell every time, but he still goes.”

Tybalt's smirk was scary. Really scary. Especially when he added: “He gets hell if he doesn't go.” The tone was so saccharine it would give cavities – if it weren't for the acid dripping from the words. Horatio swallowed with difficulty. In the end, he was lucky his occasional flatmate was a kind of weird legal medicine student who quoted poetry every now and again. At least Hamlet did not act creepy on purpose. Or maybe Horatio was too used to it.

“Don't make such a face, come on. And apparently, today it was a meeting with Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare? He has classes with him too?”

“Nope. He mentioned a play to be performed, you'd never know.” Tybalt shrugged.

Benvolio clearly was not as calm about it: “Now I am worrying. Last time William Shakespeare launched a performance, they had to cut it short because some of his colleagues would have killed him.”

“That was not his play, that's why. And really, trying to make a play out of Chaucer's 'Troïlus and Criseyde', you have to be at least a bit off your rocker.”

“Care to tell us when Shakespeare is _on_ his rocker?” Horatio was only slightly wondering and now, he had a weird imagery of Shakespeare in a rocking chair and damn if that was not at least a bit disturbing. Considering Shakespeare's reputation of eccentricity, it would not even be that odd.

“Point taken.”

They stayed like this for a while, before Tybalt had to run for a class and left both Horatio and Benvolio to go back to the library to work some more. They spent the rest of the late morning and early afternoon working on their respective projects, with the occasional question like 'do you understand what I mean if I tell you that the Danes were actually rather close to the people in England to the extent that place-names were changed accordingly and remained thus to this day due to integration?'. Or something equally nonsensical and just this side of being plain out of topic. It was a manner of proceeding that quite appealed to Horatio because he got to explain himself aloud, and he also learned random bits of facts from Benvolio as well. It was not until three in the afternoon that Horatio stretched and decided to call it a day. He had still more duties to attend – and he promised Hamlet he would retrieve him from work. Not that it was so far – but it gave him an excuse to hole up at the teashop with a book, and pretending to work while in fact, he was only there for the tea. It was kind of funny because Horatio remembered a day, not so long ago, when he was a coffee-addict. Now he enjoyed it still, but again, going to Fortinbras's shop when Hamlet's father was watching was probably not the cleverest move he could have devised if he did not want a new type of Cold War to break out.

Going to the tea-house was a bit like walking home, in a way. It was familiar, and there were familiar faces. From afar, he saw Guildenstern and Rosencrantz at Fortinbras's, speaking with grand gestures, probably devising one of their schemes. He still remembered the pepper cake, and would never eat anything they had touched, even now. Even when he knew that neither Hamlet Senior nor Fortinbras would actually let them live it down. Speaking of the coffeeshop-owner, he was outside, apparently taking in the sun. And nothing ever prevented Horatio from talking to a friend. He thus made his way towards him, and greeted him as soon as he was within earshot.

“Hey, Horatio! It's been ages.”

“Well, I can't exactly drop by when your best friend ever is watching – he could throw a fit.” Horatio smiled, trying to defuse a bit of the barb. To be perfectly honest, he rather liked Hamlet's father – he was a good man. And he'd still be, had his wife not run away with his brother. But Fortinbras had nothing to do with it.

“Maybe, but you are missing the latest gossips.”

“The horror. Care to update me?”

“First things first: is Ophelia still dating Hamlet?”

Horatio looked at him, confused. Why was he asking this? Last thing he knew, yeah, they were still together. Well, they'd made up, that is. But that was not like it was not an on-and-off thing. It apparently was enough for Fortinbras to elaborate: “The two idiots over there have a bet going. And I'm supposed to give my personal bane three days off if he wins.”

“You don't want him to win?” That was a new one, usually Fortinbras was more likely to send Guildenstern away whenever he got the chance.

“I do.” _And you know it._

“Last time I saw Hamlet, all was well.”

“I hate you so much.” Even though he said it in the most deadpan way possible, Fortinbras could not hide his crestfallen expression. “Anyway... Did you hear this, about Abigail?”

“What about her? I mean, I know her by name, mostly. Why?”

“Barabas wants to send her back to Malta.”

“What the hell? I thought she was an MA here?”

“She is alright, but apparently, it's to prevent anyone from getting her. I don't know the particulars.” He shrugged.

“How do you know?” It was surprising. Barabas was known for his rather off-putting habits as the one holding the Chair for Law, but really...

“Jessica. She came by, and just dropped that bomb – and added that her father was considering it.”

“They obviously have lost their heads.” Horatio had had his doubts regarding both Shylock's and Barabas's sanity, though the former usually was easier to deal with.

“Well, everyone knows how Shylock adores Lorenzo.”

Horatio cringed. Truly, being Lorenzo must have gotten a lot more complicated since he started dating Jessica. But again, it could be worse. “Anything else?”

“Rumour has it that Nashe narrowly avoided death by bookshelf.”

Horatio grinned. “That's the English department. Death by bookshelf is their way of saying 'hi'. I saw Mercutio today, on his way to meet Shakespeare.”

“What, not Marlowe? That's odd.”

Horatio sighed, and made a dismissive gesture of the hand. “To be honest, it'd do the man some good to actually stop trying. Marlowe obviously will force him to work, and Mercutio is not the working type.”

“True. But he's a good lad, in his own way.”

“Flippant, excessive way.”

“How're you doing?”

The question was so sudden Horatio did not even know what to say head on. “I'm good, I guess. On my way to see Hamlet and drag him back to the flat before he gets into another fight with his father.”

Fortinbras sighed wistfully, and it made Horatio wonder once more as to why there was such a rivalry between Hamlet's father and Fortinbras's, and how it came to fall onto Fortinbras himself. He would never ask anyway, but that was close. When Fortinbras spoke again, it startled him from his thoughts.

“They don't see eye to eye, but I guess it can't be helped.”

“How do you mean?” Horatio should be disappointed that Fortinbras probably knew more about Hamlet, but that was mostly a knowledge garnered from his own father.

“Hamlet grew up between his father and mother, and I think he's more critical of his father normally. That's not a bad thing. Or maybe it's just me, because really, that stupid argument is wearing me down.”

“You're going to be the new resident Capulet and Montague!”

“Careful, that'd make you a Della Scala. And God forbids. I saw old man Capulet on the road today. He looked rather sour.”

“Apparently, it's a week for fathers to be sour on.”

Fortinbras's grin was heartwarming. It was a shame they rarely ever hung around together. “Well, who knows? Maybe it's because their kids decided to be idiots at the same time?”

Horatio laughed at this – it was probably true. After a while, he took his leave from Fortinbras – after Guildenstern complained that he was alone manning the shop.

Entering Hamlet Senior's teahouse was a bit like coming home somehow. He spotted some of his teachers, and he thought he saw Jonson hiding behind a pile of books. Hamlet was nowhere to be seen at the moment, and if his father noticed Horatio talking to Fortinbras, he said nothing.

“Good to see you, young man.”

“And you, sir.” No matter how long he had known Hamlet, he could not help but be formal with his father. Never mind how many times he was told to just stop, he could not help it.

“Looking for Hamlet? He's still working at the back, are you in a hurry?”

“Not at all. I'll have some tea then, if it's okay. He's always taking ages anyway.”

Hamlet's father smiled warmly, and let Horatio sit at his usual spot – a table a bit on the side, with two plush armchairs that just seemed to swallow you when you sat. Which made it a feat to actually leave this place. Enjoying his tea, Horatio picked another book, this time a novel. If there was one thing he liked, it was to read works unrelated to his field, here, Lennox's _Female Quixote_. Of course, people would mock him for it, but since he had read Austen's _Pride and Prejudice_ not too long ago, Lennox was a rather easy choice. And Hamlet reminded him of Arabella – he saw the plays he liked in everything he did or said, to the point that it was positively exhausting. How Ophelia dealt with it was beyond him.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed. It was a text message from Ophelia. She rarely ever texted him, so it had to be something she was reluctant to tell Hamlet. _Hey Horatio! Sorry for the bother – can you keep H with you today?_ He had to ask why, though – it was rather uncommon for her to make that kind of request. _Miranda will be on Sycorax, and she can't for the rest of the week. Please?_ How could he refuse anyway? So he accepted – and he suspected that it would earn him baked goods in the future, which was always a plus. Besides, it's been a while since he managed to get a hold of Hamlet properly. He took another sip of his tea. Perhaps this would be a quiet evening, all in all.

  
  


 


	7. Chapter 7

As soon as she reached the door to her room, Jessica slammed it shut. Well, not really slam, because her father would not like it, and these days, he was in such a foul mood that she did not want him to get even crankier. Alright, so, Lorenzo was crashing at Gratiano's – boys' night, and hopefully, they would not run into trouble like last time they partied. She quickly changed into something more comfortable, checked the time. Still some twenty minutes to go... She started her computer, and prepared her microphone, before dashing downstairs to make herself a hot cocoa. It was the right season, and there was nothing like a good chat with her friends with a blanket and cocoa. Apparently, her mother still read minds, because said beverage was already in the making. Leah simply shook her head, and Jessica reflected that she must be looking rather silly.

“I'll bring it to you when it's done, sweetie. Just go and say good night to your father.”

Jessica beamed, and hugged her mother – she was the best, always. She went to her father's study to kiss him goodnight. She was getting too old for such antics, but it made her father happy – and she wanted him to be. For all the grumpiness he displayed, he took time to stop reading his notes and papers to hug her with an arm. She would never tell him like that, but she loved him, and her mother. It was a shame that he seemed to hate Lorenzo so much. After a kiss on her forehead, he shooed her out of his office, mock-ranting against those silly women of the house who never let him work. Just because he had to say something, and because no one believed him, not even himself. In fact, it made Jessica smile fondly. She went back to her room, after collecting the house's cat, and dropped him on the bed.

When she checked on her computer, she saw that the icon was already flashing. They were quick. Funny how Sycorax seemed to work only when it suited it. Miranda was already online, so were Portia and Nerissa. Ophelia said she would drop by as well. Rosaline spoke of an emergency meeting, and if it was what Jessica thought it was, they'd need all the wits available. Hence no men around. Jessica put on her headphones and mic, and accepted the request. Immediately, the chatter of her friends greeted her.

“I swear to you, honest, that man in the library could have been Jonson's twin!” Miranda made the gesture of pulling her hair out. “Oh, hi Jessica! How've you been?”

"Hi! I'm good – how's Kiwi Land?"

"Awesome! For real. But I miss you guys!"

Nerissa snorted in her mug: "Like Hell! Come on, tell us about your pretty Spaniard!"

"Nerissa!" Miranda cried out. "I don't ask you about Gratiano!"

A ping sound indicated that Rosaline has logged in.

"Hellowwww ladies!"

They all greeted her, except Portia, who preferred to type to avoid the chorus becoming too loud.

"Hope you're all good because I got terrible news!"

"What? You breaking up with Benvolio?!" At this, the chatter grew overwhelming through the headphones. All of a sudden, she turned to see her mother in the doorway with a tray. Jessica hastily took off her headphones and made to get up.

"It's okay, sweetie, don't move." As she laid her burden on the desk, she added: "Say 'hi' to your friends for me, and tell Miranda I wish her the best in Auckland."

"Will do. Thank you, mom." She gave her a one-armed hug, and even without headphones, she heard her friends making comments, and from the corner of her eyes, she even saw Nerissa waving madly. After a small wave, Leah went away, and Jessica put her headphones back on. 

"She says hi, and hope all's good for you, Miranda."

"She's such a sweetheart! You'll thank her for me, right?"

Jessica nodded. "Sorry Rosa, that was anticlimactic."

"That's fine. So... No, I'm not dumping Ben, Romeo has not dumped Juliet." Miranda made a surprised sound. "If he did, I'd kill him."

"No doubt your other cousin would do the same."

"You've got no idea." Rosaline smiled slightly at this, before going on. "I have a problem. Or rather, Tybalt has one."

"Lemme guess: blonde, hot, puns a lot?" That was Nerissa, of course. Though Jessica would not be the one to say she was wrong. That was Mercutio alright – and a wonder he did not have a flock of stalkers following him around. Might have been the case beforehand, but now, it seemed that people were giving him a wide berth, especially when there was a certain Capulet nearby.

"Not that one. My uncle wants him to marry."

"Heeeeeeeeeeh?" came the outraged shriek of the others. Jessica cringed. It sounded just so awful and stupid. 

"When did he turn out to be a blushing maiden? Last time I saw he looked pretty manly." 

"Hi Ophelia! Didn't see you here."

"Apologies people – my father wanted to have a word."

"Rather a gazillion!"

"One to talk, Nerissa."

"Anyway!" Jessica cut in. She did not want their conversation to go down the drain.

"So, your uncle want these idiots to get married? Who's getting a dress?" Ophelia made a face, clearly joking, and it sent the others in a fit of giggles. Even Rosaline cracked a smile and shook her head.

Time to get on to it, then. If the situation wasn't so problematic, Jessica would probably have had more fun in partaking in name dropping, but then Rosaline cut the chase in telling them it was Abigail.

Silent. Absolute, frozen silence. Jessica sipped her hot chocolate, waiting. Rosa had dropped a bomb, after all.

Only Portia seemed to have her wits about her, as she asked: "Does Abigail know?”

"Of course she does, they've both been trying to keep it down while they find a way out of it. Why?"

Jessica was only slightly puzzled – but probably did Portia have her reasons in asking.

"It sounds like an old men's thing. I suppose there's no way out of it, Rosaline?"

Rosaline glanced up, looking rather unsure – it was odd, considering her temperament.

"What do you mean, no way out? If they don't want to marry, they won't. And marriage is overrated." Ophelia crossed her arms on her chest, scowling as though they were being particularly dense.

In a sense, she was right. How could you even force people to get married? As she voiced her doubts, Rosaline shook her head again.

“It's a family thing. I mean, from what I know it has to do with inheritance.”

“I don't see the link with Abigail”, said Miranda, looking rather confused by that point. Miranda was a sweet girl, and she never gave people ulterior motives. Which was a wonder, since her own father gave such motives to pretty much everyone.

“Simply put, Tybalt's father wanted him to marry before he can inherit – because then, if he dies, either his wife or his kids inherit and my father can't get it. It should have been the same with his brother, but Valentio signed out as soon as-”

“Wait wait wait!” Trust Nerissa to jump in anyway. “I thought Tybalt was not directly related to you!”

Rosaline let out a long suffering sigh. Jessica smiled sympathetically – she had been lucky to have gotten a debriefing when she befriended Juliet, but even after two years and some, she was having trouble wrapping her head around it.

“His father and our uncle married two sisters. And they have this weird habit of calling their in-laws brother and sister.”

“That's messed up.” Ophelia looked at her screen thoughtfully, as though listening to a silent voice explaining how Capulets worked. Though Jessica could not tell exactly how it was possible.

“That's Capulet style to you, Ophelia. But you are dating Hamlet, so you're probably used to it.” There was no bite in Rosaline's tone, from what Jessica could tell. Ophelia did not seem put off, so it was okay.

“Still, that's going kinda far, even by your standards of weird. And why would his uncle endorse something like that? Is it even legal? Portia?”

“I'm not certain, Ophelia. From what I know, there's nothing against it. Maybe your father could be of help, Jessica.”

Jessica shrugged. Sure, her father might find it. She was not sure how he would help, though, because while he loved seeing Barabas crawl, he may not wish a quarrel with the Capulets too. Right then, it hit her: “No one can force Abigail to marry. She's not bound to it!”

“Aye. You have a point.”

Nerissa piped in: “Maybe _someone_ should give your uncle a piece of his mind?”

“He already has. It ended badly,” sighed Rosaline.

“How badly?”

“Bad enough that everyone is treading lightly when Tybalt is around – and he stays far from our uncle. And our aunt is basically ranting against men and their stupidity. Can't blame her. Though you have to hand it to her, she said that since her brother-in-law said nothing about who Tybalt would have to marry, he could marry Mercutio.” Rosaline smiled a bit at that – it lightened the mood a bit, and Jessica did not have too much trouble imagining the scene.

“They wouldn't? I mean, they seem good together.”

“They are, Jessica. But he's not the marrying type. He's dead set against it.”

“Guess Mercutio must be against it.”

“Maybe, or maybe he can't.”

“What do you mean, he can't?”

Portia sighed: “He's one of the potential heirs to the Prince. If he does, he will not marry, nor have children.”

“And if he's married?”

“Either he gets a divorce, or he does not accept the proverbial crown. I am no specialist of the Veronese system though. Benvolio might answer you better.”

“He's going there in a few weeks for his research seminar. If he has access to the Della Scala archives, he may be able to look into it.”

“You know, I feel like I'm watching a bad soap opera, which is saying something.”

“Miranda, do you even know a good soap opera?”

“Point taken. If we summarize what news you gave me: Tybalt and Mercutio are happily dating. Your uncle wants Tybalt to marry Abigail. So far so good? Jessica, wanna say something?”

“Only that Abigail is as desperate as them”, she made a general gesture, “to get out of this. Her father wants to send her to Malta if she refuses.”

“To Malta? Have parents all lost their heads?” Nerissa bore her usual 'are you goddamn kidding me because that's not funny and please, go to hell' expression.

“Anyway. No one wants to marry, and the problem is just the will and the fact that the inheritance should not go to Rosaline's father. That's it?”

They all agreed, and waited. Finally, Miranda spoke: “Okay, it does not need to be settled right now. The only person who could do something about it is either a judge, or the highest authority in Verona.”

“Probably,” Jessica said, “though Abigail wants to try and talk to Capulet but she has to talk to Matthias about it first, and since they can barely see each other... But who knows, maybe she will manage to make the old men reconsider.”

Rosaline shook her head. “Come on, Jessica! We all know how her father is. And my uncle is just as pig-headed.”

Miranda cut them short: “Even so. Wouldn't the Prince be able to step in? I mean, they need her approval, no?”

“Miranda's right. And I don't think the Prince would like to hear this.” Portia had a secretive smile, and usually, it meant that she was angry at something, and ready to get to the arena. Meant trouble for anyone bothering her.

“Whoa, Portia, stop that!”

“What?”

Nerissa pointed at her screen, which looked rather odd from Jessica's perspective, and went on: “Like you're going to murder someone.”

“Me?” That was said with such innocence that Portia might have fooled anyone. Anyone not participating in the conversation, that was.

Jessica shook her head. They were going to spend the entire night discussing Portia's murderous habits. “Can we just leave it for now, ladies? Rosaline?”

“Sure thing, Jessica – I'll just talk a bit more to Benvolio.”

“He's not really concerned by it, though.”

“Mercutio is his best friend, Nerissa. He might see the Prince in Verona – and I would rather not have anyone else knowing about this.”

“You mean the scary cousin might do something? Anyway, anyone has news? Been years.”

Miranda let out a giggle, and when Jessica looked, all she could see was a mop of curled blond hair hiccuping on a desk. Which was odd. “Miranda?”

“You won't believe me, she's in Auckland.”

“How?”

“No idea, we barely talked, but apparently it's for work. Took me a while to remember though.”

“Excuse me though.” That was Ophelia, and she seemed somehow embarrassed – which was not hard but still. “Who are you talking about? I'm always a bit lost with your Italian cousins and brothers and in-laws and everything.”

Of course, Ophelia would not know her. She motioned Portia to answer, as she was the one who knew the most.

“Chiara, a relative of Mercutio. She's roughly a year our senior, to Nerissa and I.”

“Met her in high-school, in Venice. Didn't get to talk to her before our second year though.”

“So late?”

“Well, see how Mercutio talks to everyone and runs his mouth and so on but in the end you don't know anything about him? She's even worse than that. But she kicks ass. Literally.”

Rosaline added: “Either she adores you, or hates your guts.”

“Well, she wouldn't be the only one like that.” Portia argued.

“Between that one and Tybalt, give me Tybalt any day – at least I know people who could stop him.”

“Over the top, Nerissa.”

As they bickered, Jessica glanced at a very confused-looking Ophelia. “Are you okay, Ophelia?”

“Heh? I'm just wondering. I thought they”, she made a general gesture, probably to mean the Veronese folks, “tended to stick with each other.”

“I can't really help you, but I think she went to _Venezia_ because of arguments.”

Nerissa laughed, and Jessica did not even know what she said that could have been so funny. Arguments in a family were never a good thing, as she very well knew. Though she was lucky that her own parents never really argued – but she had seen how others did it and she hated the thought.

“She was sent there so Paris could survive high-school.”

“Nerissa! That's an awful thing to say!”

“Come on, Portia! The guy is an eyesore, you met him alright! Big families gathering in the Liga and all that jazz.”

Portia sighed: “Fine. He is a blasted pain in the rear, happy?”

Jessica was flabbergasted, and apparently she was not the only one – only Rosaline reacted quickly and cheered. It was so unlike Portia to speak like this. Though it was deserved. She had met Paris once, by accident – she was with the girls at a party, and some stuck-up peacock came by asking where the heck was Valentine and his brother. Paris rarely ever said Mercutio's name. Well, Mercutio's reputation had preceded him – and rumour had it that he'd been the bane of Verona's high families since kindergarten. But from what she had dealt with him, he was a good person – and at least, he did not make fun of her for being who she was. Anyone knowing she was the daughter of Shylock either discarded her or mocked her, without ever giving a reason for doing so.

“Now that it's not settled but still, any news for me, girls? I'm so lonely down there in Kiwiland!”

“Not really... I heard my boyfriend has been an idiot again, so I told him I would not come back for the holidays. You should have heard him cry his eyes out. I swear, he could have made me tear up.” And came a dramatic hand covering Portia's chest, as though she could not breathe.

“Oh dear, that's harsh.”

“Not when you know what he did, if any of you don't know, then he got better at skulking.” Portia let out a derisive snort.

“What then?”

“He asked me what he could do to get back at Tybalt, who allegedly nearly broke his face.”

Rosaline frowned. No one told her about that. Or was it still about that old thing from years ago?

“Honestly, your cousin's temper is as widely known as Mercutio's partying habits, which means everyone knows. Unless they're blind and deaf. And maybe Bassanio is both.”

“You, dear Portia, are his eyes, ears and wits. Sadly you are not always there, and his mouth is still his own.”

“You'd think he'd grow some sense, I've been gone for a while now. Just tell me if he has improved...”

“Not a bit.” Jessica shrugged. “But it's funny because there are people in my class who told me he has been carefully avoiding Tybalt since the party, the one I threw at my place.”

“You don't say, Jess!” Ophelia snorted slightly. “According to Horatio, Bassanio still avoids the building when he spots Tybalt.”

“And I guess we can trust Horatio for being more perceptive than the rest,” agreed Miranda. “How is he by the way? Still running after Hamlet to babysit him?”

“I wish.” Ophelia sighed. “But not so much – he retrieves him at work, but I guess he decided not to get involved, since Hamlet and I are back together.”

“You know, you'd think that after so many breakups, you'd give up on the guy.”

“It's not that easy, Miranda. I mean, Bassanio is and remains a nitwit, but Portia keeps him. I love Hamlet, I just wish he'd sort his mind sometimes, it's like a dozen shoelaces tangled together.”

“I saw a picture of a snake and someone called it a judgemental shoelace. Maybe Hamlet is one.”

“A judgemental shoelace?” Jessica struggled not to let go of the mug she was holding. Trust Nerissa to say the worst things. Though – Nerissa sent a picture, and it was Hamlet indeed.

“I think I'll print it and stick it to his locker's door at the lab.”

“Rosaline!”

“What? It'd be fun – and at least he'd have something to rant about. And by the by Ophelia – if you let him watch 'Pinky and the Brain' again, I'll know.”

No one said anything, and Jessica had no idea what this cartoon had to do with Hamlet and Rosaline, except that they both worked in a lab. Thankfully, Rosaline explained that Hamlet would sing the song just to piss the Anatomy teacher, Pr. Yorick. It was not surprising that it worked so well, in a way.

“Just whack him on the head.”

“His head is empty, it won't work shit.”

And the discussion went on and on about the boys' stupidity, and all the while, Jessica considered how lucky she was that Lorenzo seemed to have a working brain.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Abigail had been so pissed when Tybalt told her – but that was nothing compared to Matthias! If she had agreed to go and have a talk with Capulet while Tybalt was here, her boyfriend did not see things that way. To be fair, he was usually the nicest person on Earth. But he'd been taking shit for so long without saying anything - knowing it would hurt her if he spoke ill of Barabas. This had been the last straw.

She herself could not express her dismay when she found out that Juliet's father and her own were arranging a marriage between her and Tybalt. Well, at least _he_ did not think like a penny-pinching broker, with people for bankable goods. She was glad Tybalt had the good sense to tell her before her father broke the news to her, because she might have thought he was in on it, and she probably would have killed him. But then he had felt so hopeless, it made her cringe. Of course there was no way they were getting married! But it didn't have to mean they'd both be estranged from their families, not if she could help it.

They had talked it through, and came to the conclusion that the best thing to do was for her to talk to Tybalt's uncle. Maybe slightly less violently than she had originally intended, although she would not bet on her own self-restraint once faced with the man.

If Matthias did not kill him first.

She she got to his car before he did, sat in the passenger's seat, and grabbed his keys. When he tried to take them back from her, she let them drop into the door's storage compartment, taking his hand in hers instead. He froze. He looked at her, and already his rage seemed gone.

“So what do you plan to do, eh?” she asked softly. “Storm into his office and claim me as your property so that he knows he can't marry me off to his nephew?”

“You know I don't think that at all!” He was clearly offended.

“I know,” she said, keeping her voice down. She would not turn this into an argument with him, their lives were complicated enough as it was. “Still. It would not change a thing.”

“Then what?” He flopped down in his seat, looking at her through half-lidded eyes. He was tired of that whole situation, she could feel it. “You're gonna marry him?”

Abigail had to laugh. “You know me better than that. Anyway I don't think Tybalt or his boyfriend would be thrilled by that plan. Although...” She feigned to give it some thought. “We could be each other's beard!”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Of course I am! Better laugh about it, right? We've been through so much, it's not another silly old man who's gonna break us apart! Right?”

Matthias sighed. “I'm just so tired of all this.”

“You don't want us to...”

She could not bring herself to finish that sentence. Worry clutched her throat. She'd always feared this would happen; this relationship was taking its toll on them both, no matter how much effort they put into making it work. They had already elected to keep it secret, so that her father would let her live – and that was barely a hyperbole – and Matthias had been most understanding. She knew it could not go on forever, however.

“No! Of course not! How can you even...” He breathed out slowly through his mouth, visibly trying to calm himself. “Like you said. I'm not letting grumpy old men get between us.”

“Then make sure not to get in prison because of them,” she smiled, kissing his hand.

“You know I'm too nice for that.”

“Do you want to talk about that one time father made you believe that stupid guy from Malta was courting me, and you both ended up at the police station?”

“Alright, alright. I'm not going anywhere, I let you handle that one. In part because...” His voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

“That your father does not want us together is one thing. That he'd arrange for you to be married away... Even the idea of it makes me sick to my stomach. It's bad enough that we have to hide, but I could live with that. But now he's moving you around like property and I feel completely powerless, because he'd be more than happy to know I hate him for it. Worse, whatever I could say to him would only convince him that he's making the right decision. I thought things would be better once he thought we weren't together anymore – that we could have some peace. I'm not asking for much. Just the chance to be with you.”

She did not know what to tell him; there was no easy way out; and she felt responsible, in part. Until now, she had complied with her father's tyrannical demands and now it felt like it was too late to go back and tell him that no, he could not interfere like that in her life. She had wanted to, a couple of times, but once in front of him, he would deride her or twist her words until they were worthless, or plainly stare down at her until she fell silent, knowing too well what he would say to have the courage to plead her case any longer. But she knew one thing for sure:

“I'm not letting this happen! We're not in the Middle Ages any more! I have a say in whatever they're planning, and it won't go any further than wild expectations. I don't think he'll try it twice.”

“Won't he, though?”

“Well then I'll make sure he understands that I have limits. I don't want to be estranged from him, but if that's what it takes to be left alone...”

She wasn't sure how badly her father would react if it came to that, but there was only so much she could take without talking back. And would she ever really be happy if she stayed in the prison he set for her?

But she had to face her problems one at a time, and right now, the most urgent was Capulet.

 

She did not go alone to face Capulet: instead, she had arranged to meet Tybalt earlier. Not really to talk about it, as they were of a similar mind about the whole situation – and it had been going on for too long already -, but rather to present a united front to the Capulet _pater familia._ When they finally got to his office, somewhere in the Capulets' palace-like house – she was glad to have a guide or she probably would have gotten lost in that maze of corridors –, Capulet barely looked up from the files he was browsing.

“Tybalt. I'm glad you came around, we still have to finish the other night's discussion. You left in a hurry.”

Tybalt almost _growled_ at the provocation. Yet Capulet did not seem to hear, as he went on: “But who's that charming young lady?”

That's it, she had enough already. This self-satisfied man, who could not even be bothered to look at them!

“I feel slighted, sir, knowing that you arranged a match for your nephew without even knowing what I look like. Here I thought the custom was to exchange portraits of the lady: surely you would not want Tybalt to marry an eyesore! I thought fossils like you made a point to abide by such dated traditions. It would be, after all, well-advised, when you set out to ruin someone's life, to make sure you're aware of their assets.”

She was vaguely aware of Tybalt's barely concealed grin; but she was too focused on Capulet, who was staring at her, almost in awe.

“What on Earth-”

“I figured,” she went on before he could say more, “that you'd see no appeal in being related to someone who's ready to insult you. And believe me, I am! I'm even willing to slap you for good measure, if that's not enough.”

Since Capulet did not seem to have any comment to make, she drove her point further: “Good, this is settled then. I'm sure you're as happy as I am to know I'm not marrying your nephew, ever.”

She stormed off, then realised a couple meters from the room, that she had not much idea where to go from there, and she thought that Tybalt was following her, but he had stayed in the room. She elected to wait a few feet from the door. She could overhear them, and Capulet was clearly not happy; he was yelling, and it didn't sound good. She really sympathised with Tybalt; that her own father was probably no better did not make Capulet less of a pain. They were supposed to go in there together and she had abandoned him to deal with the old man on his own... She didn't know what had got into her, really. Or maybe she'd just had enough of being talked to like a child. It had felt good to be able to speak her mind for once, to say what she thought and feel like her life really belonged to her. She would have to do that more often. As things clearly got heated, she wondered whether she should go back in – when she heard Tybalt speak, in a calm, ice-cold voice that had Capulet shut up: “Well, Uncle, you did tell me to woo her. How was I supposed to do that without broaching the subject of a match?”

He left on that note, in spite of his uncle's stomping the floor and telling him to “come back this instant.”

“You alright?” She had to ask.

He gave her a bright smile. “Yes, thank you. That was... refreshing. I'm almost sure you just won me a few weeks' freedom before he recovers and comes up with another name to throw at me.”

“I'm sure you can convince the next one to spit at him just the same,” she laughed.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Thomas Kyd, see more of Ben Jonson, glimpse Nashe and Petruccio, and learn more about University life from the perspective of 'the sane men of the bunch'. And more tidbits.

Thomas Kyd was a man of few words. Unless you get him to speak of revenge tragedies. Even so, he prided himself of being observant. So when he caught up with Ben for lunch, he soon realized something was off. Maybe he was just imagining it, but at the same time they were all acting weird. And that idiot Petruccio who decided to go abroad, leaving him to deal with students from the Roman Literature department as a whole. Not many people actually took Spanish, but he did not mind it. And it gave him an excuse to work on his personal project – a project that has been dragging on for years, not that he cared very much to be reminded of that particular fact. The problem was that he was not used to handling more than half a dozen students at a time and he was feeling slightly overwhelmed at the moment.

"Something on your mind, Thomas?"

"No. Sorry, what did you say?"

Jonson smiled slightly, "Nothing, actually. Aside from the common niceties such as, winter break is coming."

"Oh, right. By the way, do you have any news from Prospero's daughter?"

"Why would I?"

"Well, she's also studying in the English Department so I figured you might." He shrugged.

"He's raging at you?"

"After everyone. I guess the students do have a right to call him Mr. Cranky-Pants."

Jonson let out a chuckle at that. "I work with Kit and Greene. I am used to Prospero raving. When he's not, it's weird. Anyway, how's your substituting faring?"

"Shut up." Kyd groaned loudly, enough to turn a few heads. "The idiot left me with the papers, his assistants can't take over for whatever reason, and he dragged his postgraduates with him. Kate lends me a hand, though."

"Even Montague?"

"You mean Benvolio Montague? Of course he did. The kid is working on the Veronese legal system, so it makes sense." He had not expected Ben to look so crestfallen. "What?"

"Do you even care that Benvolio is the only one who kept the campus from going kaboom?"

Now, Kyd was at a loss. It must have showed on his face because Ben went on: "He's the only sane Italian around, and the only one who can actually tear Della Scala and Capulet apart without it escalating!"

"Huh? They don't seem that dangerous to me." A pause. "I mean, I know they have a reputation of constantly nitpicking but-"

"For you, nearly toppling someone from King's Building's passageway is nitpicking?!"

Okay, it was not. That was on the third floor! "When?" He would know!

"Last April, I think. Or May...."

"Ah! I was abroad last year, throughout the Spring semester. Research grant in Salamanca. So, who tried to kill whom?"

"Take a wild guess." 

He sighed. "There must be something in these Capulets' blood." And he should know, because he already heard of people being terrified of Rosaline as well. Tybalt himself was hot-headed out of the classroom. Maybe the youngest was less of a firecracker, but he doubted it. 

"Anyway, I heard you were trying to find an arrangement with Madrid's University for an exchange program." 

In moments like this, Kyd wanted to kill one Ben Jonson. And then remembered that he was the literature nutcases' babysitter. No killing Ben Jonson then. But still!

"Kyd?"

"Our dearest A of a dean decided that we don't have the funds."

Ben winced. Gosson was a manticore, honestly. A peevish, nasty manticore. And one who took an immediate dislike to anything literary – too bad for himself, as he wrote plays in his free time.

"What have you done again?" 

Kyd knew Jonson was kidding, but he would not pretend that did not sting.

"Nothing, for once. Anyway, I really should do something that does not require me selling my body instead of my wits."

"Wha–"

"Joking, Ben. But really, it's getting on my nerves." He sighed loudly. He was so exhausted, and it was not getting any better. Petruchio better get back here really soon to deal with his own mess.

"Coffee?"

"Tea, rather. And I buy."

Nevermind what he thought earlier, Ben was a fine chap and Kyd felt it his duty to do small things for the TAs. He waved off Ben's protests and they quickly went out of the main building towards Hamlet Senior's teashop. He liked this place – warm, quiet, with plush armchairs to sink into. Not to mention the teas. Not that he was not fond of Fortinbras – they had met over the years Fortinbras was juggling with his studies and the shop.

As he was enjoying his tea, he observed Ben. The young man looked frazzled these days. Of course, he would not ask directly, instead he wondered aloud what was up in the English Department. 

"Could be worse, I guess. Kit is in full exam-preparation gear again, and he's running after students to get the papers back; Will is himself and Kate is literally bouncing all over the place because the youngest Capulet asked to do her MA final thesis with her." Kyd smiled. Katherina Minola was not the warmest person to be around, but it was nice to have someone working with her.

"What about you?"

"I just... run all over the place. Honestly, I don't even know how."

"The thesis?"

"Would go better if I stopped sleeping."

He said it so seriously that Kyd laid down his cup, making a disapproving sound.

"You won't make it if you kill yourself on the way."

"Well, you're the only one who cares."

It was perfectly untrue – Ben Jonson was too nice for his own good, and even when he was angry, he never sent the professors to hell. And gods, Kyd himself had to listen to Will praising the kid all day for weeks when Jonson took the TA position. Damnit, even Nashe, of all people, told him they'd need more TAs if Ben left. He told his young friend so, and was just a bit annoyed to have him shaking his head.

"You're not objective."

"I'll give you objective. You have been a TA under Kit's supervision for what now? Seven years? Kit Marlowe-years count as dog years."

Ben snorted at that, and it was lucky he had not been drinking at the time. Kyd was dead serious about it – for someone so young, Kit Marlowe had this uncanny way of ageing anyone working with him. And he himself was usually too far to even know half the things that went on in the English Department. He smiled apologetically to his young friend, even though he was glad he could get a reaction out of him that was a positive one.

“Now now, Jonson, if you die now, I am afraid the Department will indeed fall apart.”

Jonson sighed, though he was smiling as well: “Believe me, I still have no idea how it has not already. Though it seems to be a work in progress on Marlowe's part.”

“Still refusing to grade essays? I vaguely heard Kate ranting about that to Petruccio one day.”

“He refused to grade _Shakespeare_ 's essays. So I lent him a hand. But no, not that. See how Marlowe loves his books that are not exactly his?”

“Who in this University never had to deal with that magpie of a bookworm?” Truth was, pretty much everyone in the Humanities departments had had this problem at least once, mostly because Christopher Marlowe was a greedy learner, and he would read every single book about any subject that struck his fancy. Luckily, for him at least, Spanish was not his favourite, though he paid enough attention to the Reconquista and the Inquisition to appear more than vaguely creepy.

“You have to be right. But no, this time it has more to do with us, as in, Shakespeare, giving certain books back again. Overdue, of course.”

“And so the mighty Marlowe is throwing a temper tantrum?”

Jonson made a face – it was the face of a man who has seen too much and cannot unsee. It was an expression Kyd was very familiar with because he has stumbled often on Petruccio and Kate and those never made for fond recollections. He just hoped Jonson was not as scarred. And he was not even sure he wanted to know, but Ben already answered him: “Something like that. We have this new rule about avoiding their office. Though mostly, Kit goes around with a dark cloud over his head, and even Nashe avoids him.”

“That badly? Just for a few books?” Kyd would never understand Marlowe.

“He's brewing something, and it smells like cyanide-flavoured tea.”

Kyd could see this happening, for some reason. Maybe the rumour according to which Marlowe was a devil had some truth in it, go figure.

“Anyway, how long will Petruccio be gone?”

“A week or so. I don't quite know – possibly longer for the postgraduates. Can't imagine Benvolio being in Verona without going to see his relatives.” Kyd hoped it would not be much longer than that because really, he could already see the cracks in the walls of the faculty.

They talked for a while, of pretty much anything that was not University-related, and in the end, Jonson left Kyd to his own devices. And Kyd just ordered about two more teapots, before Hamlet senior practically dropped into the armchair previously vacated by Ben.

“You look tired, friend.”

“You don't look much better, Soren.”

Kyd was one of the few who kept using Hamlet's father's second name instead of his official one. On campus, Hamlet was the medicine student for most people, and Kyd had a hard enough time to recall who was who at all times without people having the same name..

“What can I say? My son apparently forgot all about his next exams, came to his senses and is now too busy crying in Ophelia's bosom to actually do anything about it. From what she told me, so I reckon it's even worse than that.”

Kyd smiled at this – he had heard about these two since before they even went to university. Yorick made a point of telling everyone about how this particular student of his keeps sprouting verses in classes or just spends his day in a daze thinking about his girlfriend. Kyd found it rather cute, if he may say so himself. But again, he was not Hamlet's professor. These two would probably spend their lives together, but it was refreshing to see that even for the young ones, it was not always so easy. Though life would be much tougher without tea.

He smiled, albeit faintly. “Guess we all have our share of drama.”

“Do your colleagues make it so hard?”

“Well, you already see Kit often, so I guess you know more than I.”

“I know things get bad when he goes to the other side of the road to get sweets after collecting his tea.”

“You can't question his dedication, though.”

Soren smiled, and it made Kyd smile in turn. It was nice to speak freely, about different things. Which made him think about something – stupid him nearly forgot. “While I'm here, I meant to ask you: there'll be a Salieri retrospective in Milan in May. I have reservations, and made for a friend who aren't sure they'll come anymore. If you'd like, I can ask them. Plane's booked too, everything is.”

“Don't you think we're a bit old for such convoluted courtship?”

“Your wife wooed you with opera tickets?”

“”Worse! She offered me a trip to Bayreuth for the Wagner Festival.”

“I can't compete with that.” He grinned. It was sweet, in a way – and never was Soren so happy as when people recognized the music he normally played in the shop.

“Still, thank you. If your friend can't come in the end, I will, and gladly so. It's been a long time since I heard Salieri being played, which is a bit of a shame.”

“Many people hold the 'Amadeus' movie as gospel, you know.”

“And that's the absolute sadness of it. Unsurpassed woe!”

“Really?” Kyd shook his head – the dramatic attitude was a family trait, it seemed. He just hoped the son would not be as dramatic as the father, but chances were it would be the case. When Kyd went away, he did so with the heavy feeling that he would not get much sleep.

As soon as he made it to his flat, he saw the red light from the answering machine. He sighed – that bode ill for his well-earned rest. Instead of checking it right away, he cooked himself something to eat, and refused to acknowledge the offending machine until he was almost ready for bed. Only then did he check the messages. One was from Katerina, saying she would bring Petruccio's books at University two days hence, and that he shouldn't worry too much about protocol anyway. Some other three were from people he would never recontact anyway. The last one was Petruccio, saying he would stay two extra days or so in Verona – the Prince requested his help in fixing certain loopholes in the archives. Kyd was not easily duped: if Petruccio stayed longer, it was simply because he wanted to lurk in the archives a bit more. It was fine, really. Two days wouldn't make much of a difference. He just had hung up when the phone rang, the tone jarring at his head.

“What?”

“Hey Tommy! You round?”

“For goodness's sake, Nashe, you got any idea what time it is?”

“Ten-ish? Look, you totally have to come! We had a drink with Kit and Will, it's so fun! Just come over!”

“No.”

“Come oooooooooooooooooooon! And bring Lyly with you! The guy needs to loosen up!”

“I am off to call it a day. If you call again, I swear to whatever god is watching that you'll land in a Cocytus of trouble.”

“Meaning, my good fellow?”

“Meaning you can sod off and die, and not even bother coming back from Hell.”

He smashed the phone down. Maybe that was harsh – or maybe not enough, because Nashe would never think ill of him for hanging up on him anyway. The man was just so absolutely infuriating, Kyd had no idea how the others bore with him. Or rather, he knew why, and suddenly, he was glad not to have accepted, because he was pretty sure his mind would not have survived. He loved them all, fine. But they were just too much to handle, and right now, all he wanted was the comfort of his own bed. And no dreams. And no one to bother him. Sweet silence, welcome.

 

  
  


 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Prince of Verona learns of Lord Capulet's plans - and is clearly not partial to it.

Looking out of the window, it was a sight Rina would never tire of. The arena could be seen across the streets – it was like gazing through History, across the scope of time and into a place long forgotten. She turned around, taking in the sight of the family arms along with the city's crest. A responsibility shouldered by their family as long as they lived. Ancient volumes on the shelves testifying of even more ancient laws. Sighing, she walked back to her desk. There was time, and yet in a moment like this, she felt weary. She had to decide who would take after her. It was a tradition, or rather, it had been the custom since the Renaissance that those ruling over Verona would keep the title of Prince – and kept it until the dawning of the twentieth century. The Prince would remain childless and single. The reasons were obscure – and when her brothers married, she agreed to take on the title and responsibilities. Rina had become Prince Caterina Della Scala for all but her nephews and niece. Not that she minded. Her mind drifted to the second eldest of her nephews – Mercutio. Of all of them, he worried her the most. Even as a toddler, he would crawl all over the place. Even her niece would not match him, though she was a close second. But again, Chiara was abroad, and would not come back before a few months, if her work went well.

You would not know, looking at him now, how broken he used to be. Rina knew better. She had seen her nephew hit rock bottom. She knew the tales were true. Except this one: Mercutio rarely ran after women after a while. So he said, one of the rare times he actually spoke to her, not too long before he moved to Britain. It was not common, but she worried about him a great deal. She might be the head of the family, but she could not openly care beyond what was expected of her, that is to say, not much. Caring was usually left to the parents, but it was no help. The Della Scala did not care for their youngs beyond raising, feeding and educating them. She had been away when Mercutio grew up. She had not known until it was too late. She pinched the bridge of her nose. Why was she even thinking about that? She had work to do. Staring at the huge mass of paperwork, she cursed those idiots. Even out of Verona, Capulets and Montagues gave her work. She sighed. Luckily she was at Villafranca – at least, she had a nice office and not something cold, white and dreary. And there'd be a visit from her friend from University, Petruccio Minola. He sent her an email a few weeks prior, requesting access to the archives. Even though it was not her domain, she took care of it. 

She set back to work, fountain pen and all. 

Almost two hours later, she got a call from Petruccio.

"Ciao Rina! How are things in your realm?"

"Boring. Capulet tries to get me to interfere in Montague's affairs..."

"Poor you. Stop working, I'm getting you to lunch!"

She smiled. Petruccio was so flamboyant, always cheerful... Sunshine brought into man. 

"Fine. Where are you?"

"Downstairs. I left my students having fun, eating together is better than with their old and boring professor."

"As if. Give me five minutes."

In three, she was in the hall, and embraced Petruccio. It was so good to see him. And good to see him not as the awful womanizer he once was but as a happy, married man. Kate did a good job bringing him to heel, so to say. He stepped back, holding her at arms length. She was used to have him scrutinize her – it was almost a default setting with him. He was also way too fashionable to be a teacher, and from what she heard from Kate, he was not getting any better.

“My dear, I would pay to see you in a skirt. It's been ages.”

She chuckled lowly, and shook her head: “It bothers so many people that I'm a woman, you don't want me to try and actually look like one.”

“Of course I do. And a skirt won't make you any less scary. And absolutely love this suit, the pinstripes make for a very mob-ish air.”

Rina scowled at this. She really did not like it when people compared her to a Mafia Don, mostly because the Della Scala had functioned like a 'family' for so long. And if pinstripes made her a _mafiosa_ , there was no telling what the right borsalino would do, nor the tie or the black car. Which was one reason why she kept a silver one. It was nondescript and no one cared.

“Anyway, where are you taking me?”

“Surprise!”

She stared blankly at him – the exact same stare she used against her nephews when they visited and tried to wreck havoc in her office. Usually, it worked. Again, Petruccio probably got the same from Kate, so Rina surmised it was useless anyway.

“Don't look at me like that, Rina. You'll like it!”

And later, she would admit that Petruccio could be trusted in his choice of a trattoria. She used to bring the kids here for their birthday, it was a small wonder that Petruccio remembered – she had mentioned it once. And only because of a moment of weakness when she confided in him one evening. It had been years though. The meal was absolutely grand, as expected, and they talked of many things, and nothing at the same time. Important matters were left for coffee.

“So, how are things holding up for the Prince?”

“The Prince should fall back on Machiavelli more often. As usual. How about you? It's a wonder your faculty let you go.”

“Well, Gosson did not have much choice. We had an agreement with other universities. If our dear dean wanted to make things difficult, we might have lost Verona. And you have to admit that it would have been a shame.”

Rina let out a humourless chuckle. Universities were as set in politics as the rest. However, no lives were in danger in this. For an instant, she wondered about Chiara – and berated herself for immediately associating death with her niece. There were no proof of her direct involvement, and until then, she would have to assume her to be clear of all charges. Truth be told, she was reluctant to consider Chiara's guilt in these matters. Chiara's record were clear: she did not stray from orders unless she was personally involved. And nothing about these men linked them to their family, or any other great family of Verona. It simply did not make sense. Her gut feeling was that she was the only one responsible – but herself, as Prince, and as their aunt, should have known better. If Mercutio were to walk in her footsteps, she would have to tread carefully. Which was one reason she was glad to have news from Petruccio.

“You said you wanted access to the archives? Which ones exactly?”

“Mostly early Renaissance. Benvolio Montague is working on the interplay between city-states, so I think he would also have a look at your diplomatic records.”

“It does not surprise me.”

“What does?”

She waved a hand dismissively – she had said that as an afterthought, but it made sense: “Out of the younger ones, he's the most likely to try and understand rivalries, instead of diving into it. I am sure that what he learns now will help in the future. At least the Montagues will have a head of family with a working brain.”

“Unkind to his cousin.” But Petruccio smiled anyway. Good thing. She scoffed.

“Romeo is a nice boy, but too busy skirt-chasing.”

“Kate told me he's taking her classes to be with the Capulet girl, so I guess it must be something.”

“Rosaline? You lost me.” She was puzzled. It made absolutely no sense here. Rosaline was not a literature student last time she heard of her.

Petruccio burst out laughing, and would have tipped his coffee over had the cup not been empty. “Don't be silly, Rina. Speaking about Juliet.”

Rina slumped, rather gracelessly, back in her chair. “Great... Now I'll have their parents on my back to argue against a match.” Because she knew them too well, and it would not end up otherwise.

“Don't be so pessimistic!”

They talked for a while, until it was time for Petruccio to leave again. They had set appointments for the next day. She would be there to show them around, of course, and promise, she would not act scary. She would use the opportunity to ask Benvolio about Mercutio – it had been a while since he had given her any news and it was rather odd.

 

Of course, not acting scary was one thing. Not looking scary was quite another, and even if she had done her best to look professional instead of mafia-like, she could tell that the students were awed. Maybe Petruccio told them horror stories about her, who knows. For goodness sake, she was not an undertaker! She was even wearing a purple shirt to bring some colour to the grey ensemble.

“Good afternoon to you all. I am Caterina Della Scala, and I'm the Prince of the city. Professor Minola requested the archives of Verona to be opened for you. However, this is an exceptional authorization, and as such, a few rules will have to be applied.” She smiled.

The students all nodded gravely, as though they were afraid to offend her. Maybe they thought she was royalty? She tried to not let her good humour show – she actually liked it when people deffered to her, that could not be helped – but she was almost sure that Petruccio noticed it. Rina took a few moments to further observe one student in particular: Benvolio was just as she remembered him, ever kind and polite, but he seemed a bit off. As she led them to the second floor, where the archives were brought, she tried to analyse their reactions. Most of them had only heard of the Palazzo della Ragione, and probably did not think people still worked here. When they entered the main room, Rina saw Giovanni in an armchair, a volume in hand. And to think she had been looking for him for a while this morning, she should have started there.

“Out with you, Gianni.”

“What did I do again?”

“Nothing. I thought you were flying for some far away place.”

“You are mistaken, I'll go next month.”

Rina sighed. Giovanni was a pain to get rid of, if he did not want to budge, and it had been a long time since she last managed to drag him around. She tried a different approach, which consisted of staring down at her brother until he started to squirm. Worked wonders, though.

“Fine fine, going. Have fun, fellas! Petruccio, Benvolio.” And with that he was gone, oddly silent for a man of his size.

After this, Rina turned to her guests, watching carefully as they took their things out of their bags and laid said bags by the door. She retired to her office – if anything happened, both Benvolio and Petruccio would know where to find her. The afternoon passed slowly, until she got a call from Capulet, asking about the inheritance agreements in Verona and, after much coaxing from her, whether or not Tybalt could be made the next in line, instead of either Juliet and Rosaline.

“Why would you want that?”

“I have my reasons.”

“If this is because you are afraid that your legacy goes to Romeo, I can tell you that Montague is not happy that his goes to Juliet either. So you could sort this out together without me.” She did not care that Capulet would sulk or throw a hissy fit. Fact was that she was sick and tired of their stupidity. As he started off again, she just cut him short: “I don't want to know. I have enough work as is, without doing something that you can. As for changing the order of succession, the agreement stands, unless Juliet, Rosaline, or both, prove to be illegitimate or unfit to take after you. Your nephew is last in line because he is his father's son, and if you bring up that Salic Law, there'll be consequences.”

After she hung up on Signor Capulet, she made it clear that any call from Capulet, or Montague, was to be redirected elsewhere. Like Antarctica. Rina kept on working on files, and stopped only when a tap was heard at the door. She looked up to see Benvolio in the doorway, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Don't stay like this, Benvolio. Have a seat.” She put her files away, waiting for him to be seated before asking him what he wanted, and how was everyone.

“Mercutio is alright, well, better.”

“That's good to hear. Last time we talked over the phone, he said he had someone, except he did not say who it was.”

“Well, I don't think I can tell you...”

“Benvolio, I am not stupid. My nephew hasn't ranted against Tybalt in ages.” One look at Benvolio's face was a clear indicator that she was right. “I am not surprised, not really. And to be honest, I am glad they stopped trying to kill each other, it was getting worrisome.” She smiled gently. If Mercutio was happy, it was all that mattered. She simply hoped no one would try to get her to intervene – you never know with the Capulets, they were pig-headed enough to be a nuisance.

“Actually, I meant to talk to you because of concerns relating to them. Rosaline asked if I could find something relating to matrimony in Verona, but I can't find anything and I don't know.” He cut himself short, and waited.

Rina was not certain what to make of it, nor what marriage had to do with anything. As far as she knew, none of her nephews and niece wanted to get married. Mercutio less than the others.

“What is it, Benvolio. Speak plainly.”

“Signor Capulet wants Tybalt to marry, and according to Rosaline, it's so her father cannot inherit anything. I don't know what she meant, this was all she said.”

“Do you know if he had someone in mind for Tybalt to marry?” She was curious – who did Egidio think worthy of Tybalt? Certainly not Mercutio, that was for sure. She prayed it was not a Della Scala.

“Abigail Maltese. She's a friend of Rosaline, from University.”

“Unless the young lady herself is Veronese, I can't enforce a marriage, strictly speaking. And I would not do it, even if I had the legal leeway to do so.”

However, it did not seem to ease Benvolio's mind, seeing that he was still fidgeting. Once more, she invited Benvolio to speak. It must be hard for him, but she needed as much elements as possible to decide on a course of action. Couldn't Tybalt decide who he would marry?

“I spoke to Mercutio, and neither him not Tybalt want to get married. I have no idea what Tybalt's uncle have in mind, no one could say exactly.”

 

“And they are afraid Capulet would ask _me_ to force the law on our nephews, or worse, force Tybalt to marry someone else against his will?” She was floored. The nerves. The nerves of that man! Benvolio's nod was such a pitiful movement that she had to get up, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I won't do anything of the sort. But thank you for telling me.”

“What will you do?”

 _Yell at Egidio Capulet until he regrets every single life choice he ever made ._ She almost felt sorry for Benvolio, as it was not his fault, and yet he worried so much. He was acting like an older brother to her nephew, and if only for this, he deserved any help she could give.

“I'll make sure they don't have to come apart, if I can. Politics and family arguments should stop interfering with the rest.”

“The feud has ruled our lives forever.”

“Yes, Benvolio, and that's exactly the problem. You are well-placed to know that time passes, and that sometimes, things need to change. My family did not stay at the head of the state by sticking to all the ancient rules.”

Benvolio looked like he was going to say something, and Rina was relieved that he did not – it would have probably been about the fact that the Prince of Verona cannot marry or have children, an archaic rule that was still enforced. At the same time, it never bothered her. The next Prince would have to change the rules, if he or she disagreed with them.

“Don't tell Mercutio I told you, though.”

“Well, he did not even tell me he was in a relationship with the young Capulet. I can't very well see myself just telling him I am meddling in his affairs.”

“Thank you.”

“You'll thank me when I do something.” She accompanied Benvolio back to the door, and added, before he turned to leave: “However, if you could tell Mercutio that he will have to come back for Christmas, I'd appreciate it. He never listens to any of us, but maybe he'd listen to you.”

“I will. Is there anything he should be looking forward to, just to encourage him a bit?”

“Well, Tybalt would obviously be most welcome.” She thought for a moment. Maybe she could... “And I'll see if I can send his cousin to fetch him, if he would not budge.”

“Not Paris, I hope.”

The look of dread on Benvolio's face was priceless, but Rina was not so evil as to let him believe this. “No, Chiara. She has been away for a long time, and we are considering calling her back from New Zealand. Try not to tell Mercutio if you can avoid it, because I am not certain she will accept to come back.” To say nothing of the mess her coming back would cause, without a doubt. Hopefully, Paris would not feel the need to fill a restraining order this time – family dinners would be complicated. More than they already were. After Benvolio left, Rina poured herself some water, regretting that she had nothing stronger. Time to call a few people.

Talking to Chiara has been easy, and easier still to convince to her make all the travel from Auckland to Britain to check on her cousin. Rina warned her about Tybalt – it would not do if Chiara decided that the Capulet boy was a threat. For some reason, she did not even sound that upset. Or surprised for that matter. Not that Rina would complain – it had been a while since she last tried to understand how her niece worked. Leaving Chiara to her bookings and other occupations, she called Capulet.

“Egidio, next time you call for my help, I'd appreciate it if you could actually tell me why the heck you need it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you try to force your nephew and mine apart for some goddamned inheritance, and think I'll help you, you've got another thing coming.” She spoke calmly enough, but for once, Rina discarded decorum and did not even bother with the niceties.

“Would you rather have Girolamo inherit what I have? What my brother gave to Tybalt? He can't inherit unless he's married.”

“And if the Council calls off the law, you stop?”

“He would not –”

“I don't care what you brother thinks. He was banned from Verona. As far as I am concerned, your brother can screw himself if that means Mercutio is safe and happy. And if you don't want to see it that way, I'll make sure I freeze Tybalt's inheritance for good, and stop signing deals for you.”

The fact that Capulet took a long time to reply gave Rina some relief. It usually meant that she managed to shake him somehow and that he would see sense. Eventually. Even if she was less... rude, most of the time, she had to make a point. And shocking people was a good way to make a point, in her opinion.

“What would you have me do, then?”

“Stop acting like an idiot. Girolamo has no claim to Tybalt's inheritance, simply because it would mean for it to move back up the line. It never happened. So even if your brother decided to call for it, it wouldn't work. Marrying Tybalt off is not a good option.”

“I did not intend to marry him off to anyone! He has the choice of who he would marry.”

She sighed. Why did they have to be so dumb? She pondered whether or not to tell him about Abigail Maltese, then deciding against it. “Let me put it simply: Tybalt will marry if he wants to. If he doesn't want, let him. If you try to make them do your bidding, you're going against me. If you go against me, I swear you'll regret it.” Since Capulet said nothing, she went on, and hoped it would be enough: “We have a guardian who is very fond of Mercutio. If her cousin gets hurt, I won't stop her from demanding retribution.”

To use Chiara as a threat was not made in vain, since few people could tell just how far she might go. The only thing that was certain was that murder would probably not be a problem if it meant helping Mercutio. Capulet hung up, after a promise not to interfere anymore on his part, and another to settle the law on hers. She was left to think about her own inheritance. Soon, the rest of the family would start barking like a pack of bloodhounds for the name of her heir.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took ages to be posted. Sorry for the wait, and thank you for sticking with us. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and for being awesome - leaving kudos and comments - they are treasured, believe me. 
> 
> [The next parts of the series probably won't be posted chapter by chapter - but only when the whole 'arc' is complete and proofread.]


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